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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854346">Game Theory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/meghantron/pseuds/meghantron'>meghantron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Character Death, Eventual Romance, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Pining, Plot, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragic Romance, Violence, joniss self-indulgence, this one is for the gays, typical intense hunger games shit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:28:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>34,317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854346</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/meghantron/pseuds/meghantron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Johanna Mason enters her Hunger Games with a ghost of a plan to get back home, expecting to die alongside her hapless young District counterpart. </p><p>Far away in District 12, a young Katniss Everdeen watches Johanna’s Games with rapt attention, feeling a strong connection to the scrawny but tough District 7 tribute through the static of the screen. </p><p>As Johanna fights through her Games and watches Katniss endure hers, how will their relationship evolve as the 75th Hunger Games commences and they are both tossed in the ring together? How will these two join forces and fight for their families, avenge their past lives, and build a possible future with each other?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katniss Everdeen/Johanna Mason</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i'll sleep when i r.i.p.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I trace the tips of my fingers along the hard wooden armrest, hoping for an anchor. It isn't there, and I float along untethered. The train ride to the Capitol through the mountains is as smooth as summer rain. The anticipation and fear building in my stomach crashes together in my midsection as the crests of the mountains break over the sunrise, now clearly visible through the crystal windows. Hints of fog creep on the edges of the glass, mimicking the traces of blurriness in my vision that has persisted since the moment they called my name. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     There’s an agenda today,</em> I remember with the cadence of someone used to routine and normal and constant. The train ride is slow enough to allow for contemplation, but never long enough for the full process of emotion that should accompany an event such as this. The numbness in my limbs prevents anything more than a weak scrabbling at the glossy wooden chair, clinging to something too shiny and pristine to notice me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I remember the livestock my neighbors keep in small, dirty pens, shuffling in the mud and blearily stumbling through life until they were unexpectedly, to none but themselves, led into a shed where one sudden movement, ended everything. The hands that once provided food and comfort hastened a brutal end. The journey too long to process the short-term, too short to contemplate anything in the future. I glance out the window again, letting my vision drag across the speeding countryside and feel my pulse in my ears intensify with each painful heartbeat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Hey...Johanna? Blight says we need to get ready, the train’s almost there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stiffen at the sound of his voice, and my name. Alder was on the wrong side of puberty for his voice to deepen with any consistency, especially not under these circumstances. I can tell that he's trying to muster the strength to deepen it, fight for some control, but it isn’t working.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I <em>am </em>ready, the stupid stylists are going to flail me alive regardless of what I do.” I clench the armrest harder, feeling the slick wood heat up as my hands start to sweat. I look up at him, his face apologetic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Don’t look at me like that.” He forced his eyes away and stared down at the floor, and I immediately feel a little bad. “Sorry.” I take a deep breath. “Where’s Lacy? She’s supposed to get these things organized.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     As Alder takes a hitched breath to answer, the compartment to the train door slides open and the esteemed Lacy herself steps through. The escort had taken on the appearance of a crepe myrtle tree in full spring bloom in anticipation of our arrival, her floaty pink train hugging a tight magenta corset etched with brown lacing reminiscent of the tree’s thin branches. White flowers pepper her light brown hair, which is twisted up in an elaborate bun. She is accompanied by a cloud of perfume that perfectly mimics the scent of the blossoms. I have to respect her commitment to the costumes if nothing else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Good morning, lovely tributes!” she chirps in her accented Capitol voice, as light and clipped as the perfume. Alder looks like a half-drowned, muddy kitten standing next to her, still wearing that sickly apologetic frown. Lacy bustles around the compartment, pouring drinks for the two tributes, her flowery train whipping about behind her. I resume staring out of the window at the sunrise breaking over the mountaintops. The Capitol is approaching at over 200 miles an hour, and I have a dark and impossible wish that the breathtaking speed would cause the train to derail and end this entire spectacle before it could make it to the big screen. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Big day ahead - the Tribute Parade is this evening, and there’s no time to waste to get you two ready to absolutely dazzle!” I look at Alder, who had probably never looked dazzling in his entire life, and then down at my own hands, caked in grime with black fingernails tapping against the armchair. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “It’s probably too late for dazzling. Maybe sparkling, if they scrub hard enough to get all the dirt off.” Lacy tsks, thrusting a glass of juice at me, and I smirk at Alder, who continues to look lost. Whatever. I throw the juice to the back of my throat as if it contains something stronger and stride back to my compartment on the train.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The hallway sways softly with the rhythm of the train, and I catch a glimpse of a tablet attached to the wall displaying the time left before our imminent and unceremonious debut in the Capitol. 02:46. My compartment door slides open with a soft hum, the dark interior greeting me. I had been given a “choice” of a few different types of compartments - as if any illusion of choice after the Reaping was somehow logical - and I had selected one with blackout curtains and dark comforters that had the allure of a cave, complete with dark glowing lamps that cast long shadows on the walls. My stomach churns as I wonder how many other tributes had selected this same compartment, hoping the darkness would provide some solace. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I pull off my wool sweater and stand in front of the mirror, eyeing my appearance. Not for vanity, not for some self-examination in preparation for these stylists to violate my personal space, but an evaluation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My thin, dark hair falls in thin wisps around my furrowed brow as I pinch my biceps, test the tension in my abs underneath my tank top, and arch my back, rolling my spine and hearing the satisfying pops of my spine as it stretches and cracks. I check over my shoulder that the compartment door was rolled shut and begin my routine.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Sit-ups, rapid and constant until my stomach aches and my breath quickens. Pushups, too many to count. I need the sheer muscle strain over some number. The curtain rod had been tested to hold my weight - bolted into the wall to prevent a wayward tribute from using it for a more nefarious purpose than to hold curtains - and I go into my chin-ups, ten, twenty, thirty. I am just taking a breather and stretching my arms out when the door slides open with another small click. I whip around, grabbing for my sweater.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna. Can I have a word?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Ever heard of knocking?” I spit, pulling on the woolen garment and crossing my arms. Blight. Our unfortunate mentor is thin and wan, the bags under his eyes making him appear a decade older than his real age. A black sports coat hangs off his frame, and I slide my eyes over a figure that was once strong and impressive, but now wastes away, fading into the endless parade of teenagers he has the privilege of ferrying over to the Capitol. My mother admires his strength and tenacity through his Games. I see a has-been killer instead. He ignores my query, coming to recline in the desk chair and give me a once-over. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Are you sweating?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “No,” I retort, becoming immediately aware of how much I am. Blight leans over his knees, crossing his hands in a thoughtful pose. <em>I didn’t want him to see me training, I didn’t want anyone to see</em>. His eyes dart to the corners of the room, where I’m sure there’s cameras and monitors to prevent any aforementioned nefarious activities. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “There aren’t microphones, only cameras.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My stomach clenches. Confirmation that they know what I’m doing, even in this dark room. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna, do you actually want to make it home to your family?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     Fuck. </em>I didn’t think my stomach could clench any harder. “Who wouldn’t?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight sighs, deep and slow. “Listen. You know what it’s going to take to get home alive. I need to know right now if you intend on fighting or if I should just drink my way through this and try to keep Alder from becoming hysterical before the gong goes off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I instinctively grab my right arm, a red heat working its way up into the nape of my neck. “You can see the...the camera footage, I presume.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He nods.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Thanks for invading the last shreds of my dying privacy, you absolute perv,” I snap back, but his expression doesn’t immediately react, just morphs into something more contemplative, and then vaguely uncomfortable. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “They… I’ve seen you, training. A high score in the Training Center would give you more sponsors, give you more of a chance in-” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I know,” I interrupt. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He waits for more that isn’t forthcoming, raises an eyebrow. “You do <em>know </em>that’s your best chance, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I glare at him and toss myself on the bed without breaking eye contact. “So what? Even if I’m a fucking star in training, no one’s gonna put money on a Seven. Not with this batch of Careers coming up the pipeline. I saw them and Five before we had our Reaping. I know exactly what’s coming.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight breaks my gaze and stares down at his clenched hands. He also knew what was coming; he’d lived it, he’d coached doomed kids through it for nearly ten years. Either we would be taken out during the Bloodbath or struggle along until some hotshot Career notices us and turns up the brutality dial for the cameras. <em>I know exactly what’s coming. </em>The knot in my stomach tightens and sinks even further into my insides. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Get out, Blight. I need...to get ready.” The whisper choked out of me, hoarser than I’d planned. He doesn’t move. “Get. the. fuck. <em>out</em>.” He finally does, throwing one more asinine comment over his shoulder as he slides the compartment door shut.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Think about your family, Johanna.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Call me Mason, that’s the least you can do.” The thrown boot just misses his exit, smacking the closed door and leaving a footprint of dust from my last steps in the streets of Seven in its wake. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1"> ---</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The swarm of stylists descends like so many locusts on a dusty summer field to harvest, coming at me with tweezers and combs and scrubs in a nauseating cloud of high-pitched quips and shrill laughter mixing with the cleansers and the perfumes. Lacy had warned me to comply, as a dilapidated appearance in the Parade was “unacceptable” and I would “have it coming” if I gave these stupid Capitol idiots any trouble before or during the spectacle. I compromised on the condition I could sneak in a few shots of liquor before the ordeal. Lacy had sighed and actually surprised me by pulling a small flask out of her moss-colored boot and handing it over. Not quite the useless porcelain doll after all. I had winked at her as I drained the bottle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I knew Alder was in the adjacent room being prepped and preened, and at the same moment I remember the look on his face as we stepped off the train. The larger districts with cult followings and brand new fans were greeted at the station with posters and photographs like the shiny new Capitol celebrities they were, but Alder and I had stepped off the platform to see a Games camera drone and a single bored-looking reporter accompanied by a half dozen Seven fans wearing flower crowns and dressed in a gaudy green color. Alder’s face was a similar shade of green as he took in the first real sight of the Capitol skyscrapers across the waterway, the breathtaking mountains stretching towards the sky behind the gleaming buildings. He was a stupid, scared child. That image of him absolutely smacked over the head by the sight of a city filled with passive murderers would definitely grace the tribute profiles ahead of the Parade. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The stylist to my right yanks on my hair, causing me to hiss in pain. I had streaked my eyes with dark makeup on the train and stolen a final swig of white liquor as I stepped off, knowing that the sudden jolt to my system would bring tears to my eyes and redden my cheeks. The image of the scared child standing next to an evidently distraught teenager with dark streaks already staining her cheeks would be a right pair for the profiles. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “She looked positively gauche in those train photos,” a high-pitched Capitol voice chirps along as another stylist scrubs my legs raw. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Oh, absolutely! I couldn’t believe it! Poor thing,” another sighs, looking straight through me, lying prostrate on the cold table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Oh no, <em>you </em>poor thing, I can’t believe you had to <em>see </em>all of that.” I twist away from the stylist working on my eyebrows and spit on the floor in disgust. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The stylists gasp, pause, and resume chittering to each other about the Reapings all over the country, who they like and what the other stylists had planned for the Parade. I don’t know any of their names and I don’t care to know. My skin is rubbed raw and my nails feel as though they were yanked from the tips of my fingers. One stylist scrapes my scalp and bemoans the lack of time to effectively moisturize and relax the dry strands. My legs are waxed, the dark hair ripped away, my skin becoming redder than my cheeks on the Capitol platform. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They comment on my body, a shock even though I tried to prepare myself. I am thin but lean, my secret, self-regimented training alongside my normal work toughening my muscles. My fists clench as a creepy older stylist silently ogles my bare chest entirely too long for comfort, and another prattles on about the abs etched into my stomach, emerging from hours of labor and additional workouts. The desire to twist away and throw punches flares like a hot wave behind my eyes, but they hush and step away in the next second as another stylist enters the room. I know her name, at least.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Lenora, you’re here!” The one with the tweezers bobs her bright pink hair in dumb excitement, and I take advantage of their lapse in attention on me to sit up and grab my tank top. I pull it over my head as Lenora looks me up and down, hands on her hips. She’s older, with a smooth plastic face and characteristic gills etched into her temples, giving her the eerie appearance of a fish out of water. Her cropped hair was black and spiked up behind her, with the blue and green gills snaking up into her hairdo. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna...Mason, is it? You look like you haven’t had a proper bath in your life.” The swarm giggles, but her tone is ice cold. I frown, crossing my arms over my chest and grabbing my right arm out of habit. At least they hadn’t had time to interrogate me about the scars. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Just Mason, thanks. That’s why I came all the way out here, for a decent fucking bath. Thanks for obliging.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     She blinks slowly and Pink Hair gasps at the insolence. “The train was late, so we’re running out of time for the fitting. Finish up in here and get to the next room.” I smirk and extend a hand, gesturing back to the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I wouldn’t, <em>Mason. </em>Snark won’t get you in the ground any faster.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Oh, fuck. Ice Queen Lenora wasn’t taking any shit. She turns and sweeps out of the room, long velvet cape whisking behind her as the automatic door slides shut. The older male stylist takes entirely too long to rub some lotion on my extremities and I’m finally finished. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: when i r.i.p // labyrinth *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. like toy soldiers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>      Next came the excruciating but mercifully quick fitting, more begrudging looks from Blight, more terror emanating from Alder like a static crackle of an animal’s skin before lightning strikes it, another stolen swig from Lacy’s self-renewing supply, and I’m on the landing with the infamous chariots in my absolutely ridiculous costume. I am fighting every urge in me to strip it off and parade in front of the Capitol and the cameras in the nude and my slippers. A withering glare from Lenora rebuffs that exact thought.</p><p>     I sigh, tugging at the interwoven fabric of my dress that mimics climbing ivy. My feet feel bare in the silk slippers, missing the familiar weight of hiking boots and heat of thick wool socks. The dress itself is a mockery of fashion, with ivy leaves and brown stems twisting around me like a thousand vices and extending into a long train. I am steadfast in my refusal to take a good look at the ghastly headdress that weighs heavy and cuts into my scalp, but I know it has something to do with the goddamn trees.</p><p>      Alder is wearing a jacket with the same pattern as my dress, but even after the fitting, it doesn’t sit right on his tiny frame. It was probably made for a much bigger boy, I think, recalling the typical stock that statistically came out of Seven. But his name was pulled instead.  </p><p>      The chariots, horses, and tribute delegations gather on the landing, and I stand motionless next to the Seven chariots, led by glossy black horses. I trace my hand over the intricate design - made of wood, of course - and through the shininess and the hard polish I know it’s really from my people. The thought gives me some small comfort as I hear the other tributes and their mentors chatting away as they put the finishing touches on costumes and makeup. A tugging in the pit of my stomach reminds me that I should be taking advantage of these quieter moments to size up the other tributes before the training camp.</p><p>     A waft of something like an ocean breeze registers in my brain. I look up to see a tribute in a blue dress with her face painted like a mermaid. Blue scales and glitter cover one side of her face and a curled, dark blue wig hides the true color of her hair. She’s tan, with dark eyes and a grin on her face. <em>Four. Fishing. </em></p><p>     What’s she doing over here?</p><p>     She leans on the chariot, stroking the ornate surface lightly with her fingers. “Did you lose something?” She coughs out a small laugh, tempered by the deep anxiety I know is clawing its way through all of our stomachs. She looks up, extends a hand.      </p><p>     “Reva. Nice to meet you.”</p><p>     I slowly accept the hand, a small synapse in my brain connecting to inform me that playing nice with a Career tribute might have a payoff later. “Johanna.” Apparently only the one synapse fired. <em>Why the damn first name, now? </em></p><p>     She looks me up and down and then twirls around, laying a hand gently on one of the horses, who trotted a little in place at the human touch. “Nice name. I watched your Reaping footage back already, that kid with you didn’t look like he was gonna make it up to the stage, much less out here.”</p><p>     I look over at Alder, standing next to the nearest wall and staring out at the activity, expressionless. Fucking hell, he was a goner. “That makes two of us surprised,” I mutter, feeling a little guilty.</p><p>     Reva crosses her arms, leaning against the chariot and definitely crumpling her dress. “Did you watch mine?”</p><p>     I fidget with my stupid sleeves, fraying the edges of the thin fabric between my fingers. “Your what?”</p><p>     “My Reaping.” She’s leaning closer now, a smirk on her face. Taunting? Testing me? My thoughts are too scattered to tell. “I…”</p><p>     “Reva, it’s almost time.” That voice. Familiar and honey-smooth, like an old memory intertwined with a pang of something close to regret. I look up and see District Four’s male mentor, in the flesh.</p><p>     Finnick Odair is impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, the rich fabric rippling like waves even when motionless. He places a hand on Reva’s shoulder and looks me up and down. I stare back, my expression devoid of the awestruck doe-eyed looks of longing that I’ve seen other girls, even other tributes in the last few years, lovingly toss his way when he notices them. To me, he’s a stark reminder that at least one person gets out of all this. I stare at him with a primal hunger, a longing to know how he did it. Longing for the secret.  </p><p> </p><p>     The chariot glides over the smooth marble flooring and the noise is deafening. Crowds line up in stadium seating, arching high above the parade route, and I stare into the back of the male tribute from Six, seething. I know this was coming, I know that my fellow sacrificial lambs and I would be paraded in front of the world but actually experiencing it is a whole other load of bullshit. The laughing faces scattered in the Capitol crowd, contorted in delirious excitement. Pointing fingers carving small holes in my skin, direct and sharp. Alder’s clammy hand clutching the railing to my right, white and shell-shocked.</p><p>     The thought strikes me that my family is likely watching the spectacle in the square with everyone else from home, seeing me for the first time since the Reaping. I look up and scan the perimeter for a tree, something real and wooden to anchor me, but there are only harsh lights, jeering faces, and cold architecture. The music in the air... it’s the same beat as it is every year. Traditional. Terrifying. The anxious pounding in my chest is certainly familiar.</p><p>     I experience the last bit of the parade outside of my own body. I float up, level with the crowd, and look down, finally getting a good look at the horrifying headdress towering over my hair. The shorter and headdress-less Alder looks like an absolute dwarf in comparison. I scan the other tribute carriages, seeing some waving, some stoic, some even hysterically laughing at the sheer spectacle into which they find themselves embedded.</p><p>     I look straight ahead. The circular arena that marks the end of the parade looms, and atop the pedestal on the far end, President Snow. Smiling and serene as ever, both hands resting on the podium in front of him, he scans the oncoming parade with a sneering grin on his face that must appear to others as a proud smile. I feel sick. My heart is pounding in my ears, strung along by the heavy percussion of the music, peppered by cheers and fireworks.</p><p>     “Johanna?”</p><p>     I am suddenly, solidly back in my sweating, too-cold body. Alder. “What?” I hiss.</p><p>     He looks up at me, and I can only stare back. His eyes are glassy, detached. “I’m scared.”</p><p>     I take a deep, shuddering breath, looking ahead as the first couple of chariots start to round out at the end of the parade lane. “Alder...”</p><p>     I have every intention of spitting back, <em>we need to appear strong in front of these lunatics, keep it together for the cameras</em>, but something stops me cold. How many tributes had I seen growing up assume that strategy? Staring down Snow at the end of the parade with abjectly terrified expressions twisted into what they thought was bravery? Posturing for the Careers in the Training Center and scraping for favor with the worst of the lot only to be taken out in the first ten minutes of the Bloodbath?</p><p>     Since when did that actually <em>work</em>? The chariot lurches along towards the square in front of Snow.</p><p>     “It’ll be okay.” He sniffles and looks up at Snow with fear behind his dark brown eyes, alight with the popping of fireworks and a glistening sheen of tears. I grip the chariot even harder and stare down at my white knuckles. The pieces fell together like perfectly felled logs, crashing into place as our chariot ground to a halt.</p><p>     I would be weak.</p><p>     I would be invisible.</p><p>     I would snivel and sob if I needed to - my tearful moment stepping off the train had already primed my facade. A small fire kindling in my gut tells me this is my best chance.</p><p>     I take a deep breath and stare up at Snow, his perfectly tailored deep blue suit almost plain against the sheer extravagance of his posse around him, adorned in everything from sparkling fabric mimicking lightning strikes to a fishbowl headdress with real fish inside. He doesn’t need the frills.</p><p>     He holds the power, and the single rose pinned to his lapel carries more weight than a hundred flowered wigs. A camera drone zooms down, level with the Seven chariots, and I let my face fall. I’d always had a knack of crying on command - a quick trick to get the sawdust out of stinging eyes - and right at the moment I know the lens slides over my face, I let a few tears fall, tracking through my makeup down my cheeks.</p><p>     My expression is the picture of despondence, premature resignation. Snow calls for the official commencement of the 71st Annual Hunger Games. Lacy’s pitiful attempt at relatable rhyme from the Reaping crashes back into my mind. <em>May the odds stack for you like logs, right?   </em></p><p> </p><p>     The elevator ride up to the tribute apartments is fast but not fast enough to prevent the slow stink of Alder’s vomit from the landing from permeating the crisply conditioned air. He’s downcast, staring at the floor in meek embarrassment while Lacy looks down at him with a slight frown. At least it didn’t happen during the parade itself. My skin crawls at the constricting fabric of the costume and I ache to tear it off and work out until exhaustion overtakes me. No one says anything.</p><p>     I turn and look out of the glass elevator as the glittering Capitol buildings spread out underneath us like a spider’s web laden with dew, stopping at the base of the looming mountain range. The citizens are still partying in the streets, adding to the twinkle of lights with their stupid sparklers and self-lit costumes. They recede, speeding away, becoming smaller like a swarm of wood ants. </p><p>     I’d fucking love to crush them all.</p><p>     “We’re meeting bright and early to review the Reaping footage, and you two are due in the Training Center right after lunch.” Blight tosses his jacket over one of the fragile velvet chairs by the entryway and beelines to a tray adorned with opaque glass bottles.</p><p>     I eye him, stalling in the entryway and tossing my heavy headdress to the side with abandon. Lacy visibly deflates and scurries off to her room, Alder quietly shuffling into another marked with his name. My eyes slide around the rounded main room to land on my door. Johanna. Etched in curly letters like some asinine homemade decoration, the name I hate that they’ve already stolen from me. At least it’s carved into the wood.</p><p>     Blight clears his throat and I whip around to see him holding a drink out to me.</p><p>     “Mason. Care for a nightcap?”</p><p>     I stare at the proffered drink and wordlessly begin to strip out of my dress, peeling off the ropy layers and finally freeing my skin of the horrible itch. Blight averts his eyes, still holding the drink out to me. I snap up a robe from a side table and throw it on, kicking the dress and flimsy slippers into a corner.</p><p>     “Quite the gentleman, I see. Glad you were taking notes on the train, at least.”</p><p>     I take the drink and sprawl on the sofa, sinking into the lush fabric. Blight kicks off his shoes and sits in the adjacent chair, eyeing me.</p><p>     “Listen. I’m on the fence about how you’re posturing, and if you actually tell me your strategy or lack thereof, I can help you. It’s what I’m here for.”</p><p>     I toss the drink back, feeling the liquor sting the back of my throat and slide down into my stomach, burning away some of the lingering clamminess as I lean into the plush couch.</p><p>     “Why should I trust you?”</p><p>     He shrugs. “I’m on your side. You don’t have much time to debate whether or not that’s true.”</p><p>     “What about Alder? Even if everything goes perfectly, both of us won’t make it out.”</p><p>     Blight looks into my eyes, and I see the weight of the years of dead teenagers behind them, shuffling past in their own sick parade. “He’s not going to make it out,” he says, his voice quiet. “He knows it, you know it, I’m holding onto enough scraps of sobriety to offer you my services, but I’m not going to waste my time, either.”</p><p>     He means business. I ignore the warm, sinking weight in my stomach and jump up, crossing the room for a refill. Blight doesn’t stop me, still nursing his own glass. The expensive bottle clinks as I pour more of the colorless liquid into the perfect crystal tumbler. How many tributes experienced these luxuries during their last days, and did they have the decency to replace any of the glassware? Probably not.  </p><p>     “There aren’t cameras or microphones in the tribute apartments. They get everything they need from the Training Center, this will be your last bit of privacy before the Games.” I bite my lip, thinking. Whirl around and make a split-second decision to throw some trust his way, see what he does with it.</p><p>     “I’m still working out the schematics, but I’ll be training around the clock. Regardless of that stupid schedule. What does a sacrificial lamb have to do to get into the Center after hours to use the weights?”</p><p>     Blight grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”</p><p>     “Good.” I toss the rest back and let the inevitable tears creep out of the corners of my eyes. I let the glass fall back to the table with a clang, and stalk into the Johanna room without another glance back at Blight.</p><p>     Time to train.      </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: toy soldiers // martika *</p><p>please let me know what you think &lt;3 stay safe everyone!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. show me the meaning of a losing offer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The sun’s first rays illuminate the inside of my room, blinding my eyelids and reminding me that I’ve left the blinds wide open so I don’t sleep in any more than necessary. I stretch my aching muscles, blinking in the sunlight. A pure moment of blissful unawareness lasts for a second like a flash of lightning on a warm summer night, and then I remember where I am. The tribute center, with only days left before I’m starving in an arena wishing I had just stayed in bed a little longer.</p><p>     I’m going to die, anyways.</p><p>     I push the self-doubt away, bury it underneath my sore arms and aching stomach. There’s no time for panic, even if the early mornings are the times I’m most vulnerable. I manage to fit in a few ab exercises and pull-ups before I hear Lacy’s voice ring out in the living room.<br/>
“Johanna! Alder! Time for breakfast, and the viewing!”</p><p>     Ten minutes later the four of us are seated around a glass table filled to the brim with every kind of breakfast-related food imaginable, from pastries and biscuits to real bacon and ham and processed but delicious honey and jams. Alder picks at his food, while I choose the protein and carbs that will help my aching muscles heal and repair themselves before they’re needed to save my life.</p><p>     Blight makes good on his promise on the access to the weight room, but to avoid the creeping cameras and Capitol reporter drones, he manages to sneak an extra weight set into the Johanna room - reducing my first name to a third person moniker brings its own small comfort in an already dehumanizing environment - and I managed to finish a rapid set of reps when he calls me back into the main viewing room for the Reaping footage. I throw the weight down with abandon, groaning as my muscles clench and shake with the exertion.</p><p>     I know my body well enough to recognize that I am reaching a physical limit, but the constant, low screaming deep inside in my chest warns that it’s not enough. Not enough to win, short of surviving, still. I stretch quickly and pull on my sweatshirt, leaving the Johanna room for the discomfort of the living space.</p><p>     Alder lies curled up on the couch, smaller than ever before. The visible bags underneath his eyes betray at least two sleepless nights, perhaps more. I imagine him staring at the ceiling in the dead of night, listening to the drone of the Capitol citizens creeping its way up seven flights of suites. The patterns of light flickering on the ceiling were similar to the ones I see at night, but I drown out the drone with my heartbeat in my ears and my sweat running down my temples. Three days remain before the gong signals the countdown of the rest of our short lives, and I’ll be damned if I spend it staring into a space that refuses to give anything back but more dread.</p><p>     We review the Reaping footage for several hours. At the end of it, I’m actually not too worried about the bunch, but I know that I’ll get some surprises during training. The average age is much younger this time, with the exception of the Careers - luck of the draw, I guess - but even the trained volunteer warriors look surprisingly…beatable. I’m not getting any more relaxed, though.</p><p>     Blight asks if we want to watch our Reaping and we both say yes, if only to get one more background shot of our families during the ceremony. The commentator’s remarks are also good indicators of their first impressions - Alders' comments are sympathetic, mine indifferent. We were already forgettable at the same moment our lives as we knew them ended.</p><p> </p><p>     First day of Training. The center is exactly like it’s shown on the television during the other games, and I am annoyed at how much the similarities continue to shock me. It’s not like they change everything every year, and the familiarity is part of what makes this so horrific to everyone else. The same backdrop, same tests, same sneering Gamekeepers and Capitol elites, the same horrible result at the end. Like some kind of factory assembly line from District 10 where all the animals except one get slaughtered at the end to a backdrop of sharp equipment and stainless steel. The only thing that changes is the rotating cast of terror-stricken characters.</p><p>     I try to blend in with the most miserable of the bunch, which is currently comprised of Alder and a couple of younger tributes from the lower districts, letting the blood drain out of my face as the Games drone pans across the faces of the tributes as they see the center for the first time. I’ve made myself cry at every opportunity, and the lack of sleep from my exercises has resulted in dark circles underneath my eyes that I’ve made even more prominent with some makeup I lifted from Lacy earlier that morning.</p><p>     I have thought through what my strategy would be, but the half-formulated plan melts away in the glare of the training lights reflecting off the beautiful equipment staged almost theatrically around the open space. I’ve never seen apparatus like this before; huge and strong in person. My muscles ache to try them out, push them to their limit, make everyone see how strong I am. But that’s not the plan.</p><p>     The Careers let out a series of whoops and eerily excited yells as they cast away their outer jackets and scramble like so many wood ants to the nearest workout structures. I watch Alder slowly lower his jacket to the ground, already trembling. We make quite the pair, as I make sure to slink around the back and tuck mine into a dark corner, out of sight. He has no idea what I’m scheming about, too caught up in his own fear and disassociation to even notice what I’m doing. It’s probably for the best.</p><p>     I am pretending not to know how to wrap my hands for a round at the standing punching bags when a group of loudly sparring Careers catches my eye. Micah and Crystal, District 2. They look as if they’ve been training their entire lives, throwing rocks at each other in the quarries or something.</p><p>     They wouldn’t have needed to actually work down there, of course, knowing the stock that typically volunteers, but those rubble-strewn dumping grounds must have been the best training obstacle courses around. Micah’s back muscles ripple through his tank top as he hefts shiny weights around with abandon, and Crystal executes a perfect tuck-and-roll with a poised landing to escape a heavy dumbbell arcing at her through the air towards where she stood a second before. Hell, she catches it as she straightens out.</p><p>     My eyes widen, not involuntarily for once. The strategy playing out in my mind melts away as I watch the District 1 tributes throw themselves into hand-to-hand combat, flowing through moves like salmon move upstream, strong and determined and fully aware that they’re being watched by outside enemies.</p><p>     A small laugh sounds from my right. I turn to see Reva grinning and strapping on gloves for shooting practice, dark hair pulled back in a messy knot.</p><p>     “Johanna. Nice to see you without that awful headdress.”</p><p>     “Nice to know you don’t actually have blue hair. Would’ve made for an easier target in the arena.” She raises an eyebrow and chuckles.</p><p>     “Do you even know how to wrap your hands? You look like a mummy.”</p><p>     “N…no, no idea. Never done this before.”</p><p>     She reaches out without asking permission, deftly unwrapping my hand and fixing the purposefully horrible job I’ve done. I stiffen at her touch, the first since I had been torn away from my family after my name was called. Fine time to remember that little statistic.</p><p>     “I wanted to wear the wig to practice, but Finnick thought it would be entirely too distracting.” I wonder what it’s like to have a charismatic mentor who can actually banter worth a damn. Blight is on my side, but he’s no conversationalist.</p><p>     “Finnick, calling something else too distracting? That’s a first.”</p><p>     She smirks, stretching out her hands. “He’s larger than life in public, that’s for sure, but he’s actually a great guy. Smart, cunning. I’m even less surprised that he won.”</p><p>     <em>Won</em>. The word bounced around in my skull like a rock, finally realizing that twenty-three people would have to die if I was going to be able to go home to my family. I would need to kill at least one of them, statistically even more than that.</p><p>     Reva bounces away to spar with her district partner and I’m alone in my corner with my perfectly wrapped hands, completely drained of willpower and energy. Alder hasn’t moved either and gives me a side-eye before wandering over to learn about poison plants and fire starting. At least I know how to breeze through one of the stations. I decide to pick up a bow and arrow and start shooting, horribly, even though I’m fairly adequate at taking down squirrels and the occasional deer when I’m up in trees. The feeling of not being able to actually practice is gnawing at my insides as yet another arrow whizzes off to the side, snapping in half as it hits the silver wall of the center. I hear laughter behind me, let my face turn red, but refuse to turn around. This is good, they’re learning that I’m a weak target and will probably be gone by the Bloodbath. Let them laugh.</p><p> </p><p>     It’s finally time for the evaluation and the training scores to be given out by the Gamemakers. I already have my strategy set, and thus don’t need to do much preparation beforehand. I’m gaining more muscle definition by the day, but continuing to hide it under black jackets and long pants. Being able to fully take advantage of four square meals a day along with the extra training in the Tribute Center has done a couple of wonders. Blight pulls me aside in the apartments before we head down to the evaluation, under the guise of adjusting my outfit and giving me mentor advice.</p><p>     “Mason, what’s the plan here? A high score gives you some advantage with sponsors, but I hazard a guess that you’re heading in a different direction.”</p><p>     “You would be correct, very astute of you.” I adjust the sleeves on my black jacket, scrunching up my nose to prepare my face for forced tears later.</p><p>     He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “No tribute has ever even tried to pull off something like this before, to my knowledge, because if any of them have ever tried they certainly didn’t make it out of the arena. The sponsors and gifts are too important, too tempting. Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”</p><p>     “Yup. Pretty much.” I clench my fists, more determined to suck in the trials than ever before. His constant questioning of my motives and strategy was becoming starkly un-mentor like.</p><p>     “This is your absolute last chance to turn this around. You know they don’t film the evaluations. They’ll view anything in the arena as adrenaline-fueled, not brought from pure skill, and you won’t gain any favors unless you suddenly kill a bunch of kids in the beginning.”</p><p>     “Good morning to you too,” I scoff, stretching out my arms to shake away some of the ever-present soreness.</p><p>     He sighs again. “Don’t bullshit me, I’m right. At least give them something, so when you manage to pull an advantage in the arena it won’t be completely out of nowhere. This is a competition, even though it’s for your life.”</p><p>     I smirk up at him, grab a water bottle from a side table, and stalk out the door.</p><p>     “I’m aiming to get a worse score than Alder, what’s your over/under on that?”</p><p>     No response. Good.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: cold war // cautious clay *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. i'd count my blessings if i thought they're all that i would need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Training continues for a few days. Average, generally uneventful despite the unfortunate incident of the female District 10 tribute slicing off a few fingers while trying to use the throwing knives. Gamemaker evaluation is next. I receive a middling low score by throwing some weights around and elaborately demonstrating that I know how to start a fire; poor Alder gets an incredibly low one, his little face wracked with deep grief and endless anxiety becoming harder to stomach.</p><p>     Interviews, the penultimate test; an event where I don’t need to pretend to be inadequate, my stage fright takes care of that for me. The television stage lights are blinding, but I’ve made myself too drunk for this to register as anything more than an uncomfortable night filled with platitudes and men telling me insincerely that I look nice, that I should smile more for the ever-present cameras, that the light is reflecting well off of my horrendous flower crown.</p><p>     The embarrassment hits me later, in the pristine bathroom as I’m throwing up my guts and wishing that I could have melted into an incoherent puddle on the stage to save everyone the trouble of watching me stumble around the arena.</p><p>     Before any of us know it, it’s the morning of the Games.</p><p>     Blight stands apart from the two of us, giving Alder one last glance over before gesturing towards the boy’s assigned plate.</p><p>     “Good luck, kid.” Alder doesn’t even meet his eyes, just moves to his position numbly, almost stumbling into the capsule that will rise on his last few hours alive. I climb into mine, stretching my arms as I test the round plate with my boots.</p><p>     Blight looks at me, and I take one last glance over at Alder before I look back at my hapless mentor. He sways slightly in place - drunk, and I don’t blame him - and gives me a daring thump on the shoulder. He hands me a small ring with his other hand, heavy in mine. It’s a circle of black tungsten, engraved with the number 7. I slip it on my finger, feeling as if my hands are not my own. My token. I hadn’t even given it a thought once they told me I couldn’t wear my normal boots into the arena and I’d thrown them against the wall in anger.</p><p>     “Give ‘em hell, Mason.”</p><p>     I slip on the ring, unable to form a response.</p><p>     Several seconds slip by, tense and quiet.</p><p>     The plate suddenly jerks, then begins to rise slowly, and my body is a thousand knots of tense anxiety and anticipation. What merciless, horrifying death cage have they designed this time - a barren desert? A marsh, filled with alligators and poisonous gases? A bombed-out city, still rigged with leftover explosives? I'd had that idea in grade school and my teacher had said I was crazy, but with my luck, it was in the cards.</p><p>     Memories of the arenas past dance through my mind, the last scraps of logic in my brain sorting out possibilities, a thousand miles a minute. It won’t be an ocean, Finnick’s Games reset that idea for a couple dozen years. A lush forest with a decent canopy would be my absolute best luck, but I don’t have any of that left.</p><p>     I know I can handle anything except a fucking desert. As the plate rises, I instinctively kneel, ready to pounce…somewhere. Is that a chill? Thank all the stars, the air isn’t hot.</p><p>     A cool breeze sweeps into the space around me and my last few brain cells connect that I’m wearing a warm jumpsuit, lined with synthetic fur around my chest like a vest. The damn boots. Thicker pants, similar to the ones we use logging in the winter but with more expensive, sleek fabric. Idiot. I could have been thinking through my initial fighting strategy instead of reaching for context I’m already wearing on my fucking body.</p><p>     The plate finally rises enough for me to see outside, and all of my senses except sight temporarily grind to a halt. Mountains. We’re in a valley. There’s snow. How is there snow so close to a valley?</p><p>     I twist around to get a frantic view of everything, careful not to take a step off the plate. There is a mountain range that stretches up to the sky, so high that clouds cover the snow-capped tips. Spread out around the tribute plates is a forested valley and foothills, approximately ten miles across in diameter if my brain isn’t completely failing me now. Surveying multiple acres during logging season lends itself to a niche skill of being able to gauge the size of a vast territory, under normal circumstances.</p><p>     The plate clicks into place, and I’m finally able to look around. Alder to my left, looking pale as a ghost, standing stiffly with his arms by his sides. To my right is the male tribute from 8, a tall, thin guy clenching his fists and staring straight ahead.</p><p>     Sixty seconds.</p><p>     Move off the plate before the minute is up, and you’re toast. Literally. I am just remembering Templesmith’s stern admonishment to the ghosts of old years of tributes who stepped out of line when an explosion sounds about six people to my left. I look past Alder towards the sound as the reverberations from underneath one of the plates blows its trapped tribute sky-high.</p><p>     A long brown ponytail and a disconnected arm are all I can make out. Someone else screams, but the clock ticks on. Alder looks at me, his face a white sheet of frozen terror, but I don’t have time to take it in. I focus straight ahead, blood pounding in my ears and adrenaline coursing through my veins. Supplies are scattered around the Cornucopia in their usual fashion, tempting tributes into the Bloodbath where, historically, half of them will meet their end in the next twenty minutes.</p><p>     I see a belt of knives strewn in the grass, almost hidden except for an unnatural, steely glint in the midday sun. I need those, and they’re close. A small rucksack is a few dozen yards in. Perfect. I know there’s more at the center but the Cornucopia will be a bloody monument to death in a matter of minutes.</p><p>     The clock ticks down, one second after another, but I’ve absolutely lost count of the time remaining after the first death and scoping out the items. Alder gives out an audible whimper but my vision is narrowed on those knives. I pivot slowly, keeping my feet planted, and check out what’s behind me. Trees, tall and piney and familiar - near District 7, maybe?</p><p>     I can’t think about that now.</p><p>     A whistle sounds for ten seconds remaining. I turn back, kneel down carefully, and wait. A drone whizzes above my head, ready to capture the scene.</p><p>     My last coherent thought is wondering how long it would take the drones to scoop up the pieces of that girl’s body.</p><p>     The cannon sounds. Off to the races.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: plasticine // one night only *</p><p>hope y'all like this entry and are staying safe right now. katniss is very close to making an appearance &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. start slow, tell it all softly. stay still, take it all easy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The rays of sunlight touch my back as I head past the District fence to beat the true sunrise. I only find one rabbit snared in the traps this morning, but only one of anything means we’ll be able to eat after the opening hours of the Games. I grab the rabbit, cover my tracks, and head home.</p><p>     After a meager breakfast, I pull a tattered hand-me-down dress over Prim’s head, feed the cat some scraps, and we soon hear the gargle of the town loudspeakers beckoning us to the square to begin the viewing. There is a mandatory hour of viewing every morning in the square, and everyone is strongly encouraged to watch as much as they can. Recaps at night are also mandatory but can be watched in the home, thankfully.</p><p>     I glower at the television set on our way out the door, endlessly frustrated that the Capitol, in its infinite generosity, can provide a working flatscreen and sufficient electricity to every home but can’t scrape together enough humanity to give the districts more of the food and products back that they produce themselves.</p><p>     My sister starved on that rug, I remember every moment of every day we were living in that pain, watching her wrapped in threadbare blankets and shaking like a leaf under the electronic glow of the set as Panem spokespeople lauded their efforts to support the Districts and heal the scars of poverty. </p><p>     I hold Prim close to me now, clutching the worn dress that hangs off her tiny frame as we both stare up into the giant screen, strategically perched on the dilapidated city center so that everyone corralled into the square can see what’s happening. It's just the two of us here; our mother had somehow obtained a rare medical exemption to stay home. </p><p>     Claudius Templesmith, announcer extraordinaire, gives some parting words as his commentary is steadily drowned out by the rousing theme music that begins to blare through the loudspeakers into the air.</p><p>     Prim trembles under my hand, from fear or the creeping chill I don’t know. Likely both.</p><p>     “Good luck to all our lovely tributes, and may the odds be ever in their favor this year! Ooh, let’s see what the arena looks like! I certainly can’t wait - see you all in a few hours for our opening recap!”</p><p>     The Twelve tributes hadn’t made it out of the Bloodbath ever since I can remember. The two families are given the mercy of a roped-off section of the square to “watch” but really to continue their process of grieving as their children’s deaths are statistically moments away from playing out on screen. It’s inhumane.</p><p>     The boy tribute’s mother clutches the dirty rope that holds her captive in the square, ties her to her son’s imminent death on screen. Everyone always hopes that it won’t happen on-camera live, so they can all have a few more precious moments to mourn a mirage of death before all of the footage is replayed in the recap. Most people try to leave by then if they can.</p><p>     No one wants to go back to work quicker than on the Games days, especially after the District’s two tributes are taken out. It’s a distraction, everyone knows it, but aside from the black market liquor, it’s all we have.</p><p>     The camera fades in on the Cornucopia, gold, and massive as always, and the big dramatic reveal of the arena slowly plays through while everyone in the square holds a collective breath and hopes it’s not a desert this year. Tributes slowly dying of thirst and scorpion bites are particularly painful to watch.</p><p>     Whispers ripple through the crowd as the arena is shown for the first time; a range of mountains, impenetrable, surrounding a forested valley. Templesmith’s voiceover notes with a barely contained glee that tributes can only climb up one side and would certainly fall to their deaths if they tried to escape down the outward side, by design, of course. The mountains tower over a circular, central valley, mostly forested but with a large river slicing through the southern portion.</p><p>     I look over at the families, guilty but still curious. The father of the girl tribute is standing steadfast, fists clenched, but the boy’s father is silently catatonic, shaking visibly. The mothers are both sobbing heaps. The girl has a small brother and he’s curled up on the ground, rocking and crying. The boy’s parents are about to watch their only child die.</p><p>     The continued tradition of keeping the families in the square is arguably one of the cruelest, forcing them to grieve in public. I look down at Prim, whose big, crystal blue eyes look up at me with the innocence of a child but the hard maturity of someone forced to grow up entirely too fast.</p><p>    Grimacing, I look back up at the screen but close my eyes, breathing the smell of dirt and sweat and vicarious fear deep into my nose. My pulse throbs in my ears, and I see red.</p><p>     The countdown starts.</p><p>     Sixty agonizing seconds while I imagine the tributes looking around frantically, deciding and re-deciding and second-guessing their strategies, and start readying themselves for the end. I keep my eyes closed, feeling the tension in the inevitable silence until a sudden explosion from the speakers results in audible gasps.</p><p>     My eyes fly open to see the camera tightening in on a tribute plate blown to smithereens, the land mines underneath triggered to an explosion. Someone in the crowd screams, but no one knows who it was yet. We won’t know, until the recap.</p><p>     One down, twenty-three to go.</p><p>     The countdown clock continues, unhindered by the first death prematurely bloodying the scene as the camera pans away from the dismembered body parts and blood seeping into the ground back to the spectacle of the arena. I can hear her parents screaming in agony from a district hundreds of miles away. The drama of the scene is more important and urgent for the cameras, of course. I feel my palms sweat, and I hope Prim isn’t watching any of this but I know that she definitely is.</p><p>     I remember how it was at that age. You desperately don’t want to watch, but something compels you to keep looking at the screen. It’s what they want. Complete and total audience participation in the horror. I hope enough tributes run like the wind and see another dawn; a double-digit bloodbath is the Capitol’s fever dream but the districts’ absolute nightmare. Somehow, it always happens.</p><p>     <em>Three. Two. One. </em>The gong sounds. It begins.</p><p>     Complete chaos ensues as the group of tributes are released from their plates. The footage is live, of course, so the cameras tend to take panoramic shots and switch off depending on who’s in the heat of action. A few moving shots race behind tributes as they dart in towards the Cornucopia, and when the camera switches from the predicated Career favorites to some background shots, I finally spot her.</p><p>     The girl from Seven with the bright green eyes, dark chopped hair, and fire behind her eyes. She got a three in training, the Gamemakers and commentators were completely writing her off as an early death, but I see something else in her. I find myself rooting for her to survive the day, despite her odds.</p><p>     She grabs a belt of knives and darts further in to grab a backpack. I clench my hands, desperately hoping she doesn’t move farther into the arena, but she takes one look at a tribute getting a knife in the back before taking off into the forest.</p><p>     Screams and sounds of chaos echo from behind her, but I recognize her technique. She’s used to the forest terrain and I can tell that she’s barely making a sound as she darts off into the underbrush. The cameras are off her now, forgetting the tributes that left, steering back to the chaos under the shadow of the golden statue.</p><p>     Everyone in the square is restless, uneasy. Half of them have their hands over their mouths, desperate to cover their eyes but they can’t. Peacekeepers roam the walkways high above the crowd, watching, keeping the corners of their eyes out for the families in the dirt below. I clench my hands inside the pockets of my dress, digging my nails into my palm.</p><p>     The first countdown is for the tributes. The second, unspoken one is the agony of the spectators, waiting until the worst is over. At least for day one.</p><p>     I can handle this. I've seen much worse. The worst part is that I know Prim is consciously watching the carnage unfold and I can't do anything to protect her from this. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: can't get you off my mind // avaberee *</p><p>intro katniss, finally! let me know what y'all think &lt;3 </p><p>black lives matter. donate to bail funds. get involved however you can. stay safe out there.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. pushing my buttons and making me think about death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>     Three. Two. One. Game on. </em>
</p><p class="p1">     I’m off, sprinting like a shot, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, a steady, threatening throb. I hear people racing towards the Cornucopia around me, and somehow hear the first scream of pain pierce the air by the time I reach the pack of knives.</p><p class="p1">     I jam the knife belt into my waistband, taking a quick look around before I sprint towards the backpack, only registering that everyone is still moving inwards but hasn’t reached anything substantial yet. I know people will stay and fight, the Careers will try to get an early advantage, but my underlying strategy and my gut pull me out of there as fast as possible. I look towards the Cornucopia and see someone get a knife in the back, and then I’m off like a shot, picturing the sunlight reflecting off the Cornucopia, splattered with the first, fresh drops of blood.</p><p class="p1">     The first trees on the edge of the forest are about a quarter-mile away and I sprint towards them, pulling the knives out of my waistband and managing to stuff them into my knapsack without breaking stride. I know I’m out of sight to all except the drones, and they’re probably all focused on the bloodbath. I hear more screams, male and female mingling in the cool air. The underbrush threatens to trip up my feet, and I’m sure it does to others, but this is my terrain.</p><p class="p1">     Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of steel in flesh, heavy objects connecting with bones, and the screams. Deaths, bodies falling, the sprinting feet of the few who decided to screw their chances at the Cornucopia and flee into the forest, some scrambling so loudly I can pick up their sounds from across the occasional clearing. I have to keep going.</p><p class="p1">     Endless minutes stretch on as I keep running, dodging fallen trunks and underbrush and thorn bushes, leaping streams without a second thought. For the first time, I feel like I can force an advantage over feigning weakness; this isn’t the barren desert of my worst nightmares, this is an arena I can work with, blend into, hide within. I know the Gamemakers won’t let me slide for long, but I’ve survived the Bloodbath, and there’s more of a chance than there was twenty minutes ago. After a half-hour of distance, I let myself trip over roots, take longer to wade through streams, show signs of slowing down even though I can keep going for hours.</p><p class="p1">     I was correct in my estimation of the distance between the Cornucopia and the mountain foothills, reaching the first change in the tree line after about three hours. I let myself catch my breath, knowing that cameras have to be on me at all times. I feel fine, but l let my body flop over in exhaustion, collapsing against a boulder and pretending to clap my hands over my ears in sheer overwhelmed panic as a silent drone inevitably catches up with me, the cameras in the trees focus on my crumpled form.</p><p class="p1">     I hyperventilate, forcing my breaths to come faster and faster as I let my mind race and collect information on my surroundings. The sun has sunk surprisingly fast, but I know from watching past Games that daylight can be easily manipulated and time doesn’t become real after a very short time. I need to focus on fulfilling my needs and securing myself to get enough rest.</p><p class="p1">     I sob out loud for a few minutes, cementing myself a spot on the background footage, then shut up. Time to get to work. I dramatically wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and pretend to survey my immediate surroundings for the first time even though there’s a terrain map already etched behind my red eyes. Tall trees, high canopies, dense foliage but far out of reach, only a few pines and elms with branches low enough to be climbed. Dense underbrush, lots of thorns, and the Gamemakers probably have more surprises hidden under the mulch designed to look natural but too perfectly placed to be so.</p><p class="p1">     There are limited options in front of me: find a tree and wait through the first night, or screw my chances and continue up into the mountains. I don’t feel like deciding, so I look through my rucksack instead. Besides the knives, it contains some protein packets, a mercifully full plastic bottle of water, a length of rope, and…something that looks like an ice pick? Perhaps a knife. I assume it has to do with the mountain range. Axes are more my style.</p><p class="p1">     Looking up from my stash, I breathe in the smell of trees for the first time after days of perfumes and air fresheners and fine food, not realizing how much I had missed this sense of belonging among nature, the indescribable feeling of comfort. Judging from the types of trees and underbrush, I hazard a guess that the arena isn’t too far from my home district. I close my eyes as a pang of homesickness washes over me, pushing it aside after a moment of pain.</p><p class="p1">     I shake my head before my thoughts wander any farther. <em>Water. </em>Next priority before I can start trying to hide somewhere for the night. The cameras are sure to be on me soon, but I’m projecting weakness, not a sense that I’m stupid enough to be ignorant about identifying water sources. </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">     The sun drops down below the mountain range, sending a few last rays of light across the expansive arena. I imagine the light dancing on the pools of blood around the Cornucopia before they seep into the ground and soak the soil. There isn’t a blanket in the backpack, so I decided to find a temporary home in the branches of a tree with wide branches and a dense canopy. I’d seen no indication that any of the tributes knew how to climb, or had any experience in forests in the dark, so I should be safe for tonight. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">     After another hour or so, the anthem blares out as if it’s being broadcast from the skies. Hearing the familiar sound now, distorted by distance but booming across the open air, is unnerving. The headshots begin to flash across the night sky, one by one, and I count them off. Three dead, then both tributes from 8. Four more after those, and then the sky fades to black. Alder somehow made through the day, as did almost every Career tribute. I attempt to take stock of who’s left and then give up. Only nine out during the Bloodbath means that the pool is still uncomfortably large. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">     The arena turned out to be larger than average, judging by how far I was able to run today. I know the districts are reluctantly watching the recap right about now, the Capitol waiting with bated breath for more coverage to come through if any action happens overnight. I’m determined to stay put, conserve my energy.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">     I let sleep overtake me, and after a few hours, a sudden cannon boom shakes me awake. I'll have no way of knowing who it is until tomorrow night. I take a few more breaths to soothe my racing heart back into a prey-like trance, not quite asleep, but far enough from awake that my brain can continue to rest. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">     Hours later, I hear the rustling in the wood, a telltale signal of approaching tributes. My eyes snap open, staring up into the dense foliage. I know whoever is coming can’t see me from up here, but I also know I don’t have enough time to move. I identify two people; both female judging by their weight as they moved across the terrain. One has some idea of how to navigate underbrush; the other either doesn't know or care about the incredible amount of noise she's making. They’re arguing, and as they approach my position, I start to make out what they’re saying. </span>
</p><p class="p1">     Goddamnit. I can feel my plan of lying low and crying for the cameras fade away with each new piece of information whispered loudly from beneath me, quickly ruining my night.</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: wiped out! // the neighbourhood *</p><p>hey y'all, apologies for the delayed update! I took the latter part of june and then all of july to complete camp nanowrimo to add some word count to my WIP fiction novel. it became too difficult to work on both projects at the same time :( </p><p>good news though, i did some replotting and refocusing and i'm finding more time to write post-camp, so y'all can expect more frequent updates!</p><p>as always, let me know your feedback and thoughts &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. killing me slowly, i might just turn it off</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">     I put Prim to sleep and check on my mother in her room, wrapped up in three blankets and slowly sipping warm tea at my behest. After cleaning the kitchen and setting the scraps down for Buttercup, I hear the click of the screen and the television’s mandatory evening programming commences. Every television set turns on and stays locked on the Games channel for six hours each day, three in the morning, and three in the evening. Citizens are strongly encouraged to watch additional live footage throughout the day for the “best experience.” The volume is also locked to a loud enough volume to be heard throughout a house, of course. Most of us try to block it out so we can sleep.</p><p class="p1">     The theme music blares and I instinctively glance towards the bedroom, hoping that Prim will stay asleep. Claudius Templesmith’s grinning, smooth face fills the screen. I wish for the thousandth time that I could turn the volume down.</p><p class="p1">     “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, districts and Capitol alike! Welcome to the first night of the 71<span class="s1"><sup>st</sup></span> Annual Hunger Games!”</p><p class="p1">     How he manages to summon the same amount of polished, glossy cheeriness with every broadcast is beyond me. I can picture the Capitol celebrities gossiping about his never-ending positive attitude, aided in no small part by imbibing copious drugs and other stimulants. It all seems very far away until the Games footage rolls over the Capitol crowds eating and drinking in opulence while everyone else teeters on the verge of starvation. I’ll never set foot in that awful city, I vow to myself. Nothing would ever make me go there, that palace of riches and waste and false laughter and meaningless wealth. I’d rather die first.</p><p class="p1">     Templesmith grins, his blinding white teeth filling the screen before launching into the recap. My stomach sinks along with my body, falling to my knees on a worn cushion, trying and failing to prepare my body to witness the horror. My stomach aches, begging me to hide, but I can’t turn away.</p><p class="p1">     The replay of the Bloodbath progresses with high speed-action shots and sweeping drone accounts of the scenes, thrown together expertly so it plays like a movie across the screen. The gong sounds, officially beginning the Games. More than half of the tributes sprint towards the gleaming Cornucopia, a golden beacon of death.</p><p class="p1">     “Ah, that poor tribute from District 8 who stepped off her plate too early — what a shame to her family! Tsk tsk, we explicitly warn them every year of the rules and yet they choose to bring dishonor upon themselves this way, not even wanting to compete in these glorious Games!” The picture of the sad-looking female tribute from District 8, Carrie, flashes across the screen, the first fatality of the Games. Her hair is pulled back in a brown ponytail, like how I used to wear mine before my mother taught me how to braid. We’re almost the same age, too.</p><p class="p1">     I shake my head slowly, aware that the pressured shame factor was to prevent suicide in the Games but feeling myself fall for it ever so slightly, projecting my guilt onto the mangled tribute. The camera pans to the shocked faces of the girl’s parents, cowering in the center square in District 8; they never show the parents this early except to shame them like this. She should’ve just played their game, at least her family wouldn’t feel shame on top of her death. How awful for them. I shake myself out of the shame spiral, but I had tripped into the narrative nonetheless.</p><p class="p1">     The announcer presses onward. The names of the dead from the bloodbath scroll across the screen; nine tributes, including poor Carrie from Eight. Nine tributes dead by the first night. Claudius feigns a moment of silence before cheerily pressing on.</p><p class="p1">     “Let’s see the dramatic moments play out, shall we!”</p><p class="p1"><em>     No. </em>My body wants to bury itself under the covers with Prim and shiver until the sun rises, but I make myself watch. Someone must. I feel as if they somehow know if no one in the house is in front of the television for the recaps, and that small threat keeps me on my knees, grinding my knuckles into the worn, dirty carpet.</p><p class="p1">     The scenes are bloodier than last year, which is saying something since a violent storm had kicked up immediately before the gong sounded. The sound caused everyone to panic while targeted lightning strikes caused the Cornucopia to act as a lightning rod, electrocuting everyone who happened to be touching it.</p><p class="p1">     The gong rings out, and more than half the tributes sprint towards the center while several more sprint away outright, completely foregoing the supplies scattered around the Cornucopia.</p><p class="p1">     “As you can see, the pure human struggle between flight or fight plays out in favor of fight; the heightened survival instinct means that in all of the Games Panem has held, over 68% of tributes decide to run towards the center instead of immediately leaving the scene for the outer arena, choosing supplies and worse odds over prolonged exposure in the arena! Quite a fascinating statistic! Oooh, here’s the first confrontation now!”</p><p class="p1">     The scene pans into a wide shot of a tall girl with a dull red ponytail throwing a knife directly into the back of a fleeing male tribute, who drops like a stone. My eyes widen at the speed and accuracy of the hit. She was Alma, District 5, clearly training on the side in the event of her possible Reaping. She didn’t volunteer, but she knew what she was doing. The boy is from District 8, and my brain doesn’t even register his first name. It doesn’t matter anymore, he’s gone.</p><p class="p1">     A girl fleeing next to him lets out a scream before another knife catches her in the arm. She stumbles but manages to keep going with blood streaming down her side. The redhead checks behind her before running towards the spot vacated by the tributes to collect her knives, and the camera pans around dramatically to reveal multiple fights happening behind the frame of view. These aren't equitable fights, they're murders. </p><p class="p1">     I crane my neck, eyes searching for the Twelve tributes. Simon was in my class at school, and Allie was in the grade above. <em>Was, </em>past tense<em>.</em> Thirteen and fourteen and they won't make it to another birthday. I don’t see either of them yet. I hope their families aren’t watching but my gut knows that they are.</p><p class="p1">     Someone else gets axed, going down screaming and without one of their essential limbs, and another tribute manages to wield an actual sword and rends a tribute from District 9 through the chest while she’s reaching for a backpack near the Cornucopia. She doesn’t make a sound, just collapses and bleeds out into the grass. The camera lingers for entirely too long on her dying moments, then switches to another fight.</p><p class="p1">     Nine dead in the first two hours. Not the worst bloodbath, statistically speaking, but brutal nonetheless. I finally find out that Simon is dead, an afterthought by the announcers casually tallying the score. Cut down by the District 2 boy while trying to grab a backpack at the Cornucopia, his only chance at survival resulting in a quick death. Allie is still alive, somehow. The recap shows her sprinting away immediately as the gong sounded, not even stopping for a water bottle. It’s the first time a District 12 tribute has made it to the second day since I could remember.</p><p class="p1">     I shove my doomed classmates out of my mind and let other thoughts whirl around in my tired brain. The dark-haired tribute I find myself rooting for is alive as of the Day 1 recap. I had seen her sprint away from the Cornucopia that morning but a lot could have happened since. The night stretched ahead, though, an invisible clock ticking to the end of several lives, one of them possibly hers. I care about Allie, of course, but tributes from Twelve were always on borrowed time. Johanna, on the other hand, has fight in her, I just know it. I want to believe it, anyway. A brief shot of her crying in the woods is played through the closing montage, and I ache, hoping she makes it through the night alive. </p><p class="p1">     I can almost hear the screams of the parents, not just from Twelve but from all over Panem, echoing through the night as the last moments of their dying children are played out on national television for all to see, edited for dramatic effect amidst the chaos. Twenty-four families, twelve communities ruined anew every year, all to keep the Capitol’s bloodthirst quenched. I wonder how many years of reparations we districts would have to pay to make up for the sins of our ancestors. According to the announcers and the whispers, no conceivable number of years would be sufficient.</p><p class="p1">     I’m shaking, the anxiety from watching the horrors scroll across my vision, leaving my body drained. The television set plays the anthem and mercifully shuts off for the night. I check on Prim, then my mother, and then I’m off to a restless sleep myself. Maybe someday, my mother will be able to take back the duty of watching so I can sleep without bracing for the nightmares I know are waiting for me.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: muscle memory // banoffee *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. will you kill me, will you drown me in the river or the sea?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     One of the voices is Reva’s, I realize after another second. I had only spoken to a handful of tributes before the Games, and she wasn’t in the daily recap last night. The other tribute, definitely female, is unknown until Reva outs her as Alma from District 5. They must have formed a little alliance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “We’re not strong enough to go after the Careers right now, Alma. Don’t be stupid.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I realize that Alma is the one that can’t navigate through underbrush without crashing audibly through every branch within her reach. Unfortunate. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “We should work on a plan, though. You saw what they did to Bristle.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Bristle. District 11, I think, though I would be able to confirm tonight. If I make it that far. I wrap the collar of my shirt over my mouth to further stifle my breathing, but sitting two dozen feet in the air would hopefully rend me invisible to the ground below. One of the only privileges that a 7 tribute typically brought to the Games — the ability to disappear up trees. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I’m aware of what they did to him. I’m not eager to have my own dismemberment broadcast on live television if I can help it, thanks.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They’re speaking with a clipped, self-aware cadence that I immediately recognize from past Games. Tributes team up in pairs or threes, statistically the ones with middling chances of survival, and aim for good television and sponsors by talking through the strategy of the Games to each other and, by extension, providing context for the rapt viewers. I can hear the night owl Capitol audience screaming at me to jump down, offer to join them and take my chances with a Career-minded alliance. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I’m playing the perpetual sympathy card, not gunning for the stupidity prize. I can only hope they’re stupid enough to see my reluctance as trembling fear, not a strategy. I let out a violent shiver for the cameras for good measure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Who’s left, then? We can pick off some little ones, keep the game going.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Ah, so Alma is either a hard play to the rich, sadistic sponsors, or a genuine psychopath. Good to know. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I hear Reva sigh, clearly conflicted, her words tense. “Poppy from District 9… she’s older, but alone as far as we know. The little girl from 12 made it out, but I think the Careers will get to her first. I think that kid from 7 made it past the Bloodbath too. I doubt he has an alliance, his district partner seems like a loner bitch that wouldn’t risk keeping him around.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     That’s just a <em>little</em> harsh, Reva. I can’t help but crack a smile, for the dramatic recaps, of course. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Alma agrees. “I saw the 7 boy run off with the 12 girl after we made it to the edge of the Bloodbath. They didn’t have any supplies - do you think they went to the river?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I hadn’t seen nor heard a river yet. It must be farther to the south. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Reva sighs, exasperated. “The littles usually head to open water, they can’t find it anywhere else. I’d rather camp out for a bit, but if you really think this is our best chance —.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Look, they don’t like it when we run and hide. We need to start making our way in here or the Careers are just going to catch us in our sleep and that’ll be it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Seemingly in agreement, the pair doubles back past me, far enough to my west that they forfeit any chance of seeing me. They appear to be heading further into the arena and away from the foothills. That was certainly a choice, especially when bloodlust and adrenaline would still be running high for the Careers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stiffen in my elevated sleeping position, temporarily relieved that I won’t be spotted, a new mental turmoil seeping into my thoughts. I had imagined, morbidly but more out of self-preservation, that Alder wouldn’t make it past the Bloodbath, his time in the arena brought to a swift end. That his death knell may have even been the cannon from the previous night. His tiny, shivering frame appears behind my eyelids and I have to clench them shut in a futile attempt to block out his face. He’s still there, though, and I know now that he’s alive and a target.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     For the first time since my Reaping, I fall into my memories. All those lonely nights in the train, in the tribute quarters, and I had managed to keep them out by training and oversleeping. Not anymore. My family floods my mind, the array of worried expressions filling my frame of vision when my name was called, inexplicable amongst the thousands of buff, strong District 7 women who would might have stood half a chance here. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They stand in the convenient, roped off area. My father, stoic as always, a flash of fear crossing his face as he suddenly realizes that this fate could touch any one of us, that it had just snatched his eldest away. My mother, the shock frozen on her thin face until I after was behind closed doors, my last memory of her a blank expression, desperate denial of my name read over the loudspeaker. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My three siblings cling to each other, all too young and ineligible to volunteer, even considering the hostile environment of Seven to do so. Our people didn’t encourage volunteers; we needed our strong workers in the trees and we had a culture of letting the chips of the Games fall as they may, the chances of the candidates left to their individual prowess. No one really trained, and few made it to the last few days alive. Blight has been the only living victor for decades.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My closed eyelids squeeze together as I remember Dara, Jay, and Maggie crowded together in the children’s corner, separated from the parents and the eligible victims, clinging to each other, partaking in my final moments in my own district. I managed to find them in the crowd after my name was called, memorizing their tiny plaintive faces in the final moments before I was shuffled onto the Capitol train, out of sight.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Jay’s expression particularly gutted me. My only brother, a tiny boy of seven, reaching for me with his big blue eyes, desperate for a last hug, a sign from his big sister that everything would be okay. I couldn’t give him that, the Peacekeepers shoving me into the back room, erecting a barrier between myself and my siblings who were desperate for a last hug, a final reassurance that they would never receive. There had been a recent threat, some classified insurgency issue, and the crowds had been warned that the tributes would be forfeiting their traditional family goodbyes as a sick communal punishment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I desperately wanted to tousle Jay’s hair, run my fingers through Dara and Maggie’s curls, causing them consternation but grounding me in the texture of their hair, the light behind their wide eyes. My parents would be stoic, my father a lumberjack of twenty plus years, my mother a stern but loving homemaker. I let myself imagine all five of them crowded together after I’m spirited away, my parents and Dara attempting to shield the eyes of the younger two but reluctant to close off their possible last images of their sister.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Bile rises in my throat and I push away the image, tears unwittingly springing to my eyes. I won’t see them again unless I win, and I won’t win if I stay hidden in treetops pretending to cry until a Career gets a jump on me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My eyes snap open. An intrinsic urge to find Alder, protect him for one more day at least, supersedes my subconscious urge to stay weak, stay out of sight, pretend until I can’t anymore. He’s my only family here, and he needs me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I scale down from the tree and wrap my possessions into my backpack, everything I own hoisted on my back, my spirit with nothing left to lose but the tiny tribute partner who may not make it through tomorrow. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Hey, the sponsors might enjoy a reckless idiot boosting their view counts. I send a middle finger up to Blight, specifically, as I follow the notorious gossips into the woods to my west side. He had disregarded Alder from the jump, and I had decided to risk my slight chances to protect him from a painful death. I’m sure he’s getting absolutely plastered right now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The underbrush hardly moves beneath my feet as I follow the girls westward, back into the heart of the arena. They take a different route that I had and I note every detail — the trees changed ever so slightly in type and height, the dirt becoming darker, moister, signaling a larger water source nearby. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Alder and Jay’s little, innocent faces keep flashing in front of my vision, a simultaneous distraction, and a driving force as I followed two tributes into what could be a second bloodbath. I had meant to pretend to be weak, knowing that it could very well be my legacy here if I’m gone too soon. A small, trembling tribute, knowledgeable of the woods but struck down by the first opponent to wield a real weapon. The gamblers wrote me off, the Gamemakers tossed me a three in training, easy pickings for the first real battle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I sidestep a grove of trees and edge around a clearing as I spot Alma’s blonde ponytail heading away from me. They’re still talking, their voices maddeningly loud in this semi-open terrain; I have to constantly check my own surroundings to make sure a third party doesn’t creep up on us. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     After another tense hour into the woods, I hear a new, male voice. Reva and Alma shut up, finally, and I edge myself against a wide pine tree and still my breathing. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The male voice starts yelling. I hear Reva yelling back, indistinguishable. A pang of terror strikes underneath my ribcage — they’re not yelling at each other, they’ve spotted something. Someone. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I finally break through the trees, my feet on the verge of tripping up over the tangled mess of vines and underbrush in my haste. I hear the river long before I see it, and a plain stretches out before me that slopes downward to the riverbank. Based on the voices, I think the tributes I’m trailing are further downstream. He has to be here somewhere, </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     If Reva’s information was faulty, this might have quickly turned into my own personal suicide mission. I can’t turn back now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Reva, Alma, and the unknown male are still out of sight. I stop and kneel to examine a bloodstain on one of the rocks at my feet. Someone else <em>was </em>just here, and based on the bright freshness of the blood it wasn’t too long ago. I look around, scanning almost wildly for movement. There. A crop of sandy brown hair sticks up behind some rocks farther downstream, and I immediately duck for cover again and move towards the sight. It has to be Alder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I duck behind a large oak tree perched on the side of the embankment, its roots tumbling down to meet the rush of water below. He’s crouched on the bank, drinking water from his hands. He carries no bag, no provisions, and there are dark mud stains streaking down the back of his black jacket. His hair is sticking up wildly, and I imagine he’s caked in sweat and dirt from trying to evade Careers all night. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     Fuck. </em>Running down there to him would mean exposing myself in plain view of anyone on this side of the river, and even someone ambitious on the other side. I know there’s cameras on me, watching what I do, and I grab at my throat and appear to be in a horrible dilemma about moving towards the water but desperately wanting to run away to safety. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     What do I even say to him? Hey, Alder, you remind me of my little brother too much to let you die without any help, let’s…make an alliance? Fight Careers together? We both know he can’t fight. I know my strategy, but it seems convoluted and stupid in this moment, for even me. Caught between a horrible plan and an equally awful alternative of turning tail and running back to the safety of the trees, I’m paralyzed, and retreat back into the underbrush to watch and hope for a better plan to fall into my brain. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The Gamemakers have other ideas. There are too many people by the river with no one willing to make a move, the temptation to intervene too strong. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I hear the rumble before I realize what’s happening. The earth trembles, and the bottom of my stomach drops out. I crouch down lower, check behind me, peer across the river, and still don’t know what it is. The rumbling stops, but the air becomes eerily still. Alder looks upriver, and I can feel the terror as I slowly follow his eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     It’s a wave. A swelling wall of water, far too large to be natural, cascades down the river, catching twigs and dirt and falling over on itself, like a dam burst with its contents rushing down on us faster than we could think. Alder screams and turns to run towards the forest, towards where I’m now scrambling away up the embankment as fast as possible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My feet slip on the damp moss, and the water moves closer every second. I hear two more distinct screams from the other side of the river, farther up towards the trees, and at the same time I see Alder trip and fall down on the bank. He’s not going to make it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I throw myself up a tree and claw my way to a higher branch, not knowing how high the wave is going to be when it hits but wanting to anchor myself before it does. I dig my left hand directly into the bark and wrap my right arm around a protruding branch just as the water hits. The wave is enormously high and probably twice as wide as the riverbank, and in another heartbeat I’m hit by a wall of water, trying my best to cover my head but failing. I can’t hear anything over the deafening rush of water, can’t see shit. The whole thing seems to last several minutes but was likely only a few seconds, and once the flood moves down the river I’m able to open my eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My forehead stings, and I glance down at my hand, now covered in blood. Shit. Some of the debris from the wave must have caught my skin, and blood is now falling into my right eye, seriously impeding my vision. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I blink hard, wiping my arm across my forehead. I only manage to smear the blood across my face. My muscles strain to hold me against the tree, waterlogged and racing with adrenaline now. I have no idea if I’m out of sight or not. All I can do is continue to blink, a desperate attempt to regain my wits and vision. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: overflown // o mer *</p><p>i was really excited to finally dig into Johanna's backstory a little, let me know what y'all think &lt;3 much more to come &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. run boy run, this world is not made for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I have no idea if I’m out of sight or not. My ears are waterlogged, the gash across my forehead continuing to drip down my face, salty and red-hot as my body struggles against the crippling wave of adrenaline. My nails continue to dig into the tree trunk, scrabbling for the surface as the whole expanse of bark is newly soaked with river water. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I struggle down the trunk, almost slipping a handful of times as my shaky hands grasp for purchase on the wood. I almost provide the cameras with an unintentional plummet down the last few feet into the shrubbery, preventing my untimely fall at the last second. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Disoriented, my heartbeat pounding in my skull, l direct any remaining energy towards comprehending my surroundings. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m sure that the unexpected tsunami had swept Reva and Alma downstream, so Alder must be over the hill with them as well. I have no bearings on the other male tribute. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stagger from my tree-side hideout into the open expanse of the stony riverbed, still streaming with the aftereffects of the manmade wave. Rivulets of water course their way through pockets of stone, coating a formerly dry surface with a new sheen of river water. I brush one hand across my forehead to quell the stream of blood from my forehead, blinking hard to make sense of the scene before me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A scream sounds from downriver. Female, presumably. I stagger to the nearest rock edge, falling to my knees and crawling in a pathetic attempt to view the scene before its occupants can view me. My hair, stringy and dripping with water and blood, obscures my view</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I trip, my knee hitting a sharp outcropping of rock, and my brain chooses that exact moment to flee my psyche and bury itself in another time. I’m back in District 7, a torrential rainstorm berating my younger self as I search through a dark memory for my brother Jay amongst heavy, dangerous logs and scattered tree debris. I scream his name, clambering over a particularly large trunk as my pant leg catches on a jagged branch, upsetting my balance. I almost pitch headfirst over the curved surface, managing to right myself at the last moment, my fingernails scraping the damp bark as I clamber over the other side. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The lumber mill has an intake pool, the southernmost point on the river, artificiality widened to receive the intake of lumber and collect it in a controlled space until it can be processed by the mill. This was the single most dangerous area of the District. Seasoned lumberjacks steered clear, and there had been whispered stories of workers left to fend for themselves, swept underneath the clashing collection of sawn-off logs, their coworkers standing to the sides of the lagoon to retrieve them or their bodies, leaving survival to Lady Luck herself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I flashback to the Games, my painful present. I can make out a girl’s fresh scream and see three figures below me; a cowering tribute with two more figures advancing on her, menacing but also soaked through.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My mind flickers back to the past, attempting to cope by fleeing to a more familiar trauma. I scream for Jay, climbing over a logging apparatus positioned to drag stray limbs out of the pond, searching desperately for my brother as the rain picks up in speed, blurring my vision. I finally spot him at the very base of the intake apparatus, clinging to the riverbank with tiny hands gripping the eroding surface. I sprint towards him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     As I approach, I see Alder downstream, swept into the underbrush by the wave, tangled amongst what looked like a tangle of thorns and dense undergrowth. I can see the dark red blood pepper his skin from here, blooming against the damp, bleak scenery. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Jay screams my name, and I ignore the pain in my bleeding foot to scramble towards him, grabbing his hand as his fingers start to slip through the silt on the riverbank. I haul him to safety, clinging to him and scrambling backward as another couple tree trunks slam through the intake, scraping the sand below our feet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He’s crying in my arms, my little brother who had been innocently exploring before the freak storm hit. I grasp him to my heaving chest, the adrenaline flooding my body as the engorged river overtakes our main lumber mill, eager to inflict further damage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on Alder in the present, our shared reality. He’s trying to scramble up the riverbank, but his foot is caught up in the tangle of thorn bushes, snarling tighter the more he struggles. I catch my breath to scream but a small functioning piece of my cranium checks on the three female figures below. Two are advancing on the third, and they haven’t noticed the injured Alder yet. I swallow my voice and creep into the underbrush, keeping an eye on the trio as I make my way back into the trees. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Bet you wish that wave had taken you out, huh, Sima?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I have no recollection of who Sima is. She isn’t Alder, at least. I continue to crawl my way up a tangle of roots, the damp splinters piercing my nail beds with a thousand tiny stings. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “No, please, I can help you get the Careers!” The voice is tiny, waterlogged, desperate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I hear Alma laugh, high-pitched and echoing across the riverbank. A second, more familiar voice attempts to reason with her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Alma, we could use her for our alliance, just hear her out!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “There’s too many of them, Reva! We’re here to thin the herd!” A tense second slips by and I see a glint of a knife plunge into a convulsing form, followed by a guttural scream from the doomed tribute. I hear Reva protest but several more grunts and the knife puncturing skin drown her out. I freeze. Reva eventually shuts up, and I can only watch ragged final breaths of the female tribute tug at her bleeding chest before her cannon sounds. Alma stands over her, her own chest heaving. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I train my eyes on Reva, who glares at her alliance partner, clenched fists barely restraining themselves from ripping hair from its follicles, a new enemy solidifying in the mist. She yells at Alma, who screams back, steadfast to their plan to take out the weaklings. Reva has apparently lost her grasp on the task at hand, yelling about taking innocent life as Alma’s kill bleeds out at their feet, the red rivulets of blood meeting the swelled stream. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Her former partner is unmoving, lacking any remorse. Reva throws up her hands in apparent frustration, sprinting downriver and leaving Alma and her new victim behind. Alma hurls a few choice insults at her back, then clambers up the riverbank and disappears out of sight herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I pause for endless seconds, feeling the humid air move like a thick syrup through my lungs, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Alder hasn’t moved, taking advantage of his luck at being unacknowledged by Alma’s rampage. I urge my body to move towards him, alone on the riverbank, his thin brown hair plastered to his scalp. I can see his chest heaving from here. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m still several yards away when I hear a rustle from the embankment to my right. A tribute bursts out of the trees, bounding past my position, his crosshairs set on Alder. I gather breath in my throat to scream, but my instinct holds me back at the last second. This one hadn’t been caught in the tsunami but had advanced on the scene to pick off any stragglers. I recognize a Career, District 2’s beaming male specimen named Micah, a bastardization of an extremely ugly metamorphic rock. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m still too far away, too waterlogged and disoriented to help. Alder sees Micah advancing and starts to scramble up the riverbank, his little hands clinging to the dirt, scrabbling for a few final moments in the living world. Micah lets out a derisive laugh as he reaches Alder’s position, grabbing the collar of his jacket and slamming the tiny tribute back onto the exposed, rocky shoreline. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My body pivots to the right, seeking a position farther up the shoreline, into the trees, overriding my brain’s continuous scream to rescue Alder, engage in my first Career fight in this Games despite the negligible odds for survival. I clamber my way into a thicket of dense underbrush and turn back to the scene below, my pulse pounding in my eardrums, deafening me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Micah hoists a spear over his head, a weapon meant for dumb game stumbling about at a distance now trained on a tiny, waterlogged tribute whose hands were splayed over his head, pleading for his life. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I flash to my past again, my brain’s last desperate attempt to keep me away from this present horror. I carry a soaked and exhausted Jay back to my family’s house in my arms, my sister’s yells alerting everyone in the home so they’re gathered by the time I set him to the kitchen table, now close to hypothermic and blue in the lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My father scrambles for salves and tinctures, my mother attempts to shield Maggie’s hysteric face from view as her husband worked to revive the little boy, shaking on the sturdy wooden table, closer to a ghost than a tiny person. I find myself staring at my mother, a frantic woman more concerned with shielding her safe child than protecting the one in danger. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’ll remember that impulse of hers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The spear drives down into Alder’s body, and it takes every atom in my own not to scream out, my hand clasping across my face, my nails digging white-hot into my cheek. He’d be on me in another second. I’m too far away to protect Alder and now I have to watch him die, bleeding out onto the damp rock, his little body convulsing as Micah continues to stab him, a wretched laugh forcing its way out of his lungs, eerily suspended in the chill air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I scramble up the embankment, my body forcing itself to move away from the scene. I’m stumbling through the underbrush a few minutes later when I hear his cannon sound and I fall onto my knees, my chest heaving. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Alder’s gone. I’m too late. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I know the cameras are circling me, capturing dual shots of my tribute partner’s dying breath and my own reaction to his death, a poetic injustice that will certainly spur the interests of those back in the Capitol with their cocktail shrimp and priceless caviar. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stare ahead, a fire burning in my chest, my limbs shaking with the exertion and latent adrenaline. Micah is going to fucking pay for this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A completely irrational thought slams into my muddled mind. I have to go back to Alder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My brain fights me every step of the way, but my body reaches a compromise by moving back to the shoreline at an incredibly slow pace, clumsily moving through underbrush when my conscious mind would have skipped through without a care or a clue left behind. I duck behind a cluster of thick bushes, peering over the top to see if Micah had waited around.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He hadn’t, long disappeared into the depths of the arena, having made his kill and airtime for the hour. Alder’s body remains, accompanied by Sima’s, lying upstream, waiting for the drones. I feel a brief pang for her, turning my attention back on Alder’s tiny form, crumpled and bleeding. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stumble down the riverbank towards him, not caring anymore if there’s another tribute in hiding, waiting to spring some trap on the district partners of the damned. I don’t fucking care anymore. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I fall to my knees just before reaching Alder’s body, scraping my kneecaps against the stone embankment as I all but crawl towards his limp form. His black, muddied jacket bears several gaping wounds, still slowly bleeding out, the dark red mixing with the muddy waters of the river, his blood blooming into the currents downstream. I gather him to my chest, trying but failing not to think of my own brother, overwhelmed, and finally letting out the sound that had been building in my chest for days. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m screaming out loud now, but my brain barely registers the sound. Alder’s body bleeds against my jacket, my shirt, further soaking my clothing with deep red heart blood but I’m beyond caring. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Let them find me, a threat my voice carries incoherent into the void. Let another fucking coward tribute spring out from the bushes and spear me where I kneel. Let’s see what fucking happens then.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I look down at my tiny district partner and smooth his damp, sandy blonde hair against the back of his head. He’s gone now, but safe in another realm. I feel as if my chest is tearing itself in two, my heartbeat growing weaker against the sustained waves of adrenaline. It takes another impossible measure of my remaining strength to leave him, to clamber up the embankment and continue in the void, fully alone now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I will win this sick game. For Alder, for my siblings, if only for the sick pleasure I’ll take watching the callous, murderous light behind Micah’s eyes fade to blackness. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Just wait and fucking see. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: run boy run // woodkid *</p><p>let me know what y'all think! &lt;3 much more to come. we're looking at an intense 40-45 chapter outline so get ready. if you're into that. if so, thanks in advance for putting up with the slow build :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. when am i gonna lose you?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Prim is particularly invested in the television set today. I try several times to coax her away with a honey-sweet from the market, a romp outside with Buttercup, but she’s still clinging to me and I have to watch this morning’s events as they scroll live across the flickering television set. My mother hasn’t gotten up yet today.</p><p>     I clutch a cup of weak herbal tea in my hands, feeling the warm porcelain prickle my skin with latent heat. I take a sip, the burning, bitter liquid sliding down my throat, a pain that somehow grounds me to the grimy wooden floor. I manage to at least wrap Prim in a blanket and she’s playing as if she’s in one of the mining caves, feigning sleep underneath a covering that temporarily prevents her from seeing the screen. I’ve conditioned her to ask for this little game when the set is turned on.</p><p>     The horrific scenes from yesterday’s tsunami are still pounding through my head, flashes of gore and heartbreak, pain. I’d watched most of it live, my mother having taken Prim out for a rare walk, leaving me with a sick urge to voluntarily turn on the set and see the live updates. The fear in the tributes’ eyes as the freak wave crested over the hills, the back-to-back stabbing deaths, and then Johanna, sprinting out of the woods in a desperate attempt to reach her tiny district partner before he succumbed to his wounds. She’d screamed, an incredible risk to take, but I knew that she had to expel that pain before it consumed her.</p><p>     I know what that feels like.</p><p>     I can’t help but project an image of myself onto Johanna Mason, a girl of the forest with a similar background, thrust into a tragic life that she didn’t ask for, now forced to contend with. I know she has younger sisters, I saw them at her Reaping. Her little sisters have the same curly hair as Prim, just in the deep shade of brown characteristic of their district instead of her blonde.</p><p>     Johanna’s eyes had flashed bright and vicious as she was ushered away without the usual family farewell due to the terrorist threat, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her then, and I can’t do it now either. I reason that this is because our appearances are similar; thin builds wrought from starvation, familiar with the wildness of Panem forests but useless in front of audiences or cameras or pressure. I ignore the deep thrum of my heartbeat, quickening when she appeared on the screen. It’s projecting, I reason, some form of adrenaline or anxiety manifesting as she moves through her Games.</p><p>     Nothing more.</p><p>     Day Three unfolds, sunlight finally breaking through the range of mountains surrounding the enclosed space. I know from the announcers that half of the mountains are part of a real range nestled far north of the Capitol in what was once Colorado, the other half-constructed specifically for this Games, an artificial crescent moon shape trapping the tributes in a ring of horror. The mountains are all engineered, the temperatures dropping exponentially as tributes move up into the perceived safety of the elevation. The snowy banks will sink you in a powdery prison in an instant, the threat of an avalanche echoed by constant small rumblings, a Gamemaker in a faraway seat grasping a control that will send half a ridge full of rocks down on a tribute without a second thought.</p><p>     There’s a presumed level of safety from fellow desperate tributes as you climb into the mountain range, away from the heart of the arena, but the threat of nature and Gamemaker intervention increases with every step.</p><p>     They can’t have a tribute escaping over the other side, after all.</p><p>     I venture out for the monthly tesserae collection, the now-familiar pang in my stomach stinging my insides as I collect the grain and oil for my family. Each portion contributes to more slips of paper in the bowl, my name written across them in fancy script. I blink hard, focusing on the food in my hands, and head back to my home after bargaining for more sugar and flour from a familiar merchant. By the time I return and mix together some gruel for dinner, it’s time for the evening broadcast.</p><p>     I reluctantly settle in for the fervor to come. The live broadcast has continued from that afternoon, a busy day in the arena. Micah, a fiery bloodlust still seeping through his veins from his recent slaughter of District Seven’s tiny male tribute, happened upon another tribute, Bruce from District 6. He’s trying to hide, his bulky frame too visible in the fields upriver from the site of the previous night’s carnage. Micah advances, twisting a glinting silver spear in full view of the gathering camera drones, each eager to grab the choicest shot of the kill. I turn my eyes away and cover Prim’s as the latest tribute falls victim to a bloodthirsty Career, blinded by the pain of others, the Games morphing into an etherial reality where he reigns supreme, squashing all obstacles beneath his feet like pawns in an inconsequential game of archaic chess. His victim’s cannon booms.</p><p>     The camera recedes rapidly away from the earth, a generic birds-eye shot of the arena conveying the vastness of the space, the inevitability of future conflict as the drones run up against the mountain range with a finality that jars even the viewer, reveling on edited footage and a constrained view of the ground below. The edges of the area are closing in on the remaining tributes, creeping into their remaining hours alive.</p><p>     Another hour crawls by, uneventful but tense. An additional Gamemaker device challenges and then takes out the male tribute from District 10, crawling up the foothills of the mountains with a trail of blood behind him. A Gamemaker-engineered eagle-like animal put him out of his misery before he makes it to the wrong edge of the doomed mountain range. They need something to show for evening primetime.</p><p>     The cannon sounds again, and Prim asks me for the dozenth time what the sound means, why it booms throughout the districts like an echoing wave, the sound reaching the farthest, poorest corners of us. An echoing herald, marking another soul’s passage to the next realm.</p><p>     “It’s a celebration, honey. Someone else has made it to a better place.”</p><p>     Prim snuggles into my shirtsleeve, serenely accepting my bullshit answer. I stare down at her hairline, thin blonde hair parting way for a strip of pale scalp, and try to channel my swirling emotions into a deep sigh.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p> </p><p>     I struggle awake for the fourth day of the Games, my body a leaden weight sinking into my sheets, desperate to avoid greeting the sunrise. Yesterday hurt, and with the pace of this Games, today would pierce even more. The morning broadcast passes without incident and we go about our day. I settle in front of the television set for the evening show, a leaden ball of dread settling in my stomach from the lack of activity that day.</p><p>     There haven’t been any deaths today. This is a typical point in the Games for this to happen; the initial bloodthirst wrings itself out and hangs up to dry, alliances tighten and solidify, lone tributes bide their time trying to survive, waiting for someone bolder to make a dramatic move. This phenomenon dubbed by the announcers as a “dead” day, a fully ironic and too-obvious name that ends up sticking among the districts. This is when the families of remaining tributes finally manage to take showers, eat something, maybe get a few hours of sleep, trying to not reach their wits’ end while nothing is happening onscreen.</p><p>     The announcers, Templesmith and Flickerman, roll through various segments to pass the time. They endlessly discuss the odds, their personal fantasy victors with pre-made mockups to accompany the speculations. The duo roll out more sponsorship packages, interview the mentors, run the statistics to death, bring on experts to talk about body temperature preservation or how to avoid drowning, but these segments are carefully generalized to prevent the average viewer from learning too much. Anyone watching could end up in a future Games, after all.</p><p>     I find myself entranced by the progression of events more than any other year. Prim is more than happy to go to school and go straight to her room afterward, only creeping back out for dinner when I give her the say-so. She doesn’t need to walk in on someone getting stabbed to death when she’s trying to maintain a sense of normalcy. I, on the other hand, can’t stop watching. Johanna Mason is still alive, and I’ve never in my heart wanted someone to prevail in this horrible contest more than her.</p><p>     I remember her in my mind’s eye from the day before, kneeling on the riverbank with the dying boy from her district, screaming down at him as the light left his eyes. Screaming at the sky when the cannon sounded, but the sound…evolved into anger. Rage, defiance. She’s maintaining the image that she’s fully given up, wasting away in inevitable defeat, but I’ve caught a number of times where the camera turns back on her as it does a montage and she’s stretching, or drawing an intricate arena map on the sand, or finding fresh water where she shouldn’t normally discover a source.</p><p>     The bewildered, terrified facade that she initially projected is quickly melting, giving way to rage and fire. Her scream on the riverbank broke through the dim screen to reach me, and while most others are still underestimating her, I find myself holding my breath every time she appears on screen. </p><p>     The cameras get entirely too close sometimes, close enough to feel like you’re sitting next to the tributes as they scavenge for food or experience a full spectrum of emotion while they’re alone in the arena, their eyes flashing. I’ve memorized the exact shade of brown in hers.</p><p>     The sun is falling down behind afternoon clouds when the cameras move away from a friendly Career sparring match back onto Johanna.</p><p>     “Well well, our District 7 wood nymph seems to be experiencing quite the shock after her little friend lost his fight!” Templesmith laced the tips of his fingers together in a little corner of the screen, his voice light but flippant.</p><p>     “Ah, it is quite an unpleasant experience, losing your district partner so early! And as she watched, helpless, too. Tsk tsk, so sad.” As if Flickerman would have any conceivable idea what a loved one’s violent death would feel like. I curl up on our worn rug, hugging my knees to my chest.</p><p>     Johanna is pacing in a clearing up in the foothills, kicking up dirt with her feet in an uncharacteristic display of carelessness. Helpless is the last word I would use. The anger bubbling under her skin is palpable from here, on the dirty floor, but she stumbles and falls to the ground, grabbing at her hair with her hands, almost tearing out clumps, and I instinctively reach out as if to stop her.</p><p>     “Johanna…”</p><p>     What’s the point? I’ll never meet her, not even if she somehow wins and lives on as a Victor. I hate thinking about it, but her odds are slim still. Seven other tributes remain, and four are still in that strong Career pack. The announcers used the morning to reminisce about the years where the Career alliance was all that was left in the end; predictable, but they put on a good show at least. The realization on the pack’s faces when they realize the alliance has to be broken, and the first one that moves statistically becomes the winner.</p><p>     “Katniss?”</p><p>     The sleepy little voice escapes from behind the bedroom door, a tiny whisper in the night. Prim. She’s awake. I turn and try to hide the screen with my body in case something happens, even though it’s just Johanna beating on a rock with her fists and crying into the night. I turn away from the Games, from her, and guide my sister back to bed.</p><p> </p><p>----</p><p>    I can’t help but return to the glowing set for the nightly recap. Apparently, I missed the headlining event while putting Prim to bed; the Career alliance had been fractured after a heated argument between District 1’s female tribute Victoria and District 3’s male tribute, Wayne, over the rationing of their remaining food supply.</p><p>     The highlight reel skipped over the majority of the argument, focusing on the moment when Wayne snaps, grabbing a knife and slitting Victoria’s throat, catching her completely off guard. I’m immensely grateful that Prim isn’t able to see the gush of dark red blood as Victoria clutches her throat, blood coating her hands, and falls to the ground. Her cannon booms as the other Career tributes, particularly Victoria’s male counterpart, square up to fight.</p><p>     Wayne had clearly anticipated this moment of the broken alliance. He’d been able to join the Careers due to his build from working in the factories, and with a few expertly thrown knives, he causes enough damage to escape into the underbrush, the other Careers fuming.</p><p>     The commentators speculate on the remaining timeline of the Games; statistically, it will be over in two days or less. A flicker of background footage spliced over their commentary and statistics shows a few other tributes in various stages of constructing shelters looking up at the sky when the fallen tributes scroll across the night sky.</p><p>     One tribute hasn’t been staring at the skies, however. I see Johanna picking through the underbrush at the Careers’ hideaway in a cave adjacent to the stream that had produced the tsunami. The wave must have manifested downstream of this area, since the cave lay untouched. I feel my breath catching in my throat as I watch Johanna pick through the pile of unattended supplies moved from the Cornucopia. She snatches some food, a flagon of water, a few throwing knives, stopping just at the mouth of the cave to stare at an object on the ground.</p><p>     She lifts it up, and a large, double-edged axe glints in the dim green light from the drone’s night vision corrections. I see Johanna’s eyes flash in the darkness, strapping the hefty weapon to her back as she checks her perimeter and darts away. The Careers are distracted, and her timing was correct.</p><p>     A weight settles into my stomach as I steel myself for the endgame unfolding on screen. She has a real weapon now, a vengeance for one of the Careers. Her target is caught up in a recently fractured alliance, thrown into chaos and infighting after a deep betrayal.</p><p>     This is getting interesting.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: when am i gonna lose you // local natives *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. help i'm alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">     Two cannons had gone off; one in the middle of the night, and the second echoing through the air in the early, misty hours of the morning. I won’t know which tributes made their exits until sunset, but the pace of this Games is picking up rapidly. There are seven of us left, which is an insane amount of bodies but something to chew on in terms of odds.</p><p class="p1">     I’m not sure how much more of this I can take before my body gives out on me.</p><p class="p1">     The mountains surrounding the arena feel as if they’re physically closing in on us, threatening to smother the remaining tributes. I manage to scrape the remnants of myself together, my hands shaking as I tear off one of my shirtsleeves to wrap around my stubbornly bleeding head wound from the tsunami. Dried blood has crusted down my face and onto my neck, staining the collar of my shirt. There aren’t any sponsor salves to save me, Blight couldn’t bring his drunk ass to find some poor sucker to send me a bandage kit, so the impossibly dirty fabric is all I have. It’s a small wonder the wound isn’t already raging with infection.</p><p class="p1">     I’m stumbling around in half-blind, seething rage, on the offensive for once as every cell in my body screams for me to jump at the next tribute I see, take one step closer to ending this nightmare when I hear loud arguing a clear half-mile in the distance. I stomp over a small network of creeks, not caring that I am now leaving footprints. The ghost of my past self begs me to cover my tracks, to be more careful, to remain quiet, but she’s dead now. I don’t have a past, only the base instinct of one foot in front of the other as I grip a knife in one hand, the welcome weight of the double axe heavy across my back.</p><p class="p1">     I think it’s the Career pack. I slide behind a large, fallen tree trunk once I complete my approach, force myself to take a few deep breaths, and try to hear what the hell is important enough to give away positions in the death knell of the Games.</p><p class="p1">     Evidently, someone had already broken ranks and murdered one of their own in the process. Wayne from District 3 had apparently just snapped and killed Career golden girl Victoria from District 1, fleeing into the mountains before anyone could react. The strained male voice I hear is likely from her district partner, Maxim.</p><p class="p1">     “I say we pack what we have and hunt down that bastard before the mountains take him.”</p><p class="p1">     “But if the mountains are as lethal as we’ve been hearing, they’ll take him out anyway and we don’t have to risk it!” Female voice. I clench my eyes shut and blearily run through my mental catalog of possible remaining humans and finally remember that the female from District 2, Crystal, is still kicking it as well. Micah’s district partner. I seethe at the connection when I hear the devil himself chime in with his own opinion.</p><p class="p1">     “You know how these things go. The arena elements exist to pick off the outlying districts’ tributes that turn coward and hide away from the real fight. They’re expecting us to close the loop and avenge our own. Wayne likely knows that.” A rather boldly stated opinion that I’m sure they’ll cut out of the “live” broadcast.</p><p class="p1">     I hear Maxim grunt and kick a pile of leaves, his foot connecting with a sizable rock in the process, judging by the audible <em>thunk</em> and immediate hiss of pain. I hear pacing, likely Crystal attempting to rationalize. I slowly slide the axe from my back, gripping the wooden handle in both hands. I take one, two deep breaths, trying to decide if this is my moment to continue in this Games or initiate the rapid countdown to my death coming to a bloody end.</p><p class="p1">     “We’ll follow him into the foothills and take that coward out,” says Crystal decisively, already done rationalizing. That was quick.</p><p class="p1">     I’m expecting either boy to protest, maybe decide to pull a Wayne and catch the other two off guard and find Maxim by themselves, but to my surprise, they both agree with her.</p><p class="p1">     The tiny smothered voice of reason deep in my adrenaline-riddled brain is screaming that I won’t possibly survive a three-on-one against enraged Careers. Taking a deep breath, I realize that I need to trail them into the foothills in case I can leverage and advantage after the inevitable fight leaves some scars. I crouch lower behind the fallen trunk, waiting a half hour for them to fully recede into the wilderness towards the edge of the arena.</p><p class="p1">     I guess they’ve decided to test their luck that the Gamemakers wouldn’t attempt to take out one-third of the remaining Career pack, further driving the blood lust for the next phase of their showdown. I know I’ll be in their favor for a time, the suspense of me trailing three Careers with bloodstained clothes and a fire of revenge at my back enough to for the Gamemakers to hold back the bloodhounds, the quicksand, or whatever the fuck else they’ve packed into the arena to take out the boring tributes.</p><p class="p1">     The terrain leading into the foothills changes sharply once the tree line ends. I’m forced to duck behind large boulders and the occasional sparse tree, allowing my range to lengthen as I keep an eye on the three specks climbing the increasingly steep hills. My pace is slow and intentional. If I dislodge the wrong rock, they’ll hear me and likely decide that a three-to-one with a weakened tribute from Seven is an acceptable detour to finding Wayne.</p><p class="p1">     I notice that the temperature continues to drop, a few degrees with every half mile or so. I know that the arena temperatures are artificially controlled, and let a shiver run its course through my body as I imagine how badly they’ll drop once we get into the rocky ranges, chasms, and snow-covered trails hidden in the mountains themselves.</p><p class="p1">     Our fleece-lined jackets and thick pants are warm, but they won’t protect us well up there. None of us are prepared for the inevitable drop in oxygen levels, but I doubt the royalty from One and Two will remember that as a potential factor. I’ve been through some blisteringly cold winters back up north and understand the amount of exposure one can handle before the numbness of hypothermia begins to creep in. After a few hours, mental faculties start splintering, a quiet desperation that can quickly undermine any remaining will to live.</p><p class="p1">     An hour passes, and then two. I take my last sip of water from my flask, draining precious drops into my mouth as I swallow my saliva along with them. I push against common instinct and decide not to trust the mountain runoff water, knowing the Gamemakers, it’s got fiberglass or some other horrid chemical in it, and I accept that it might be a while before I can find and test another source.</p><p class="p1">     The night is beginning to fall artificially fast, the sun dipping behind the opposite range of mountains so quickly that I can almost track it with my naked eye. The Careers are loudly complaining that they’ve lost Wayne’s trail, and I hate them with everything in me. They couldn’t keep track of the fucking trail?</p><p class="p1">     I throw my last caution to the chilly wind and move close enough to hear Crystal complaining that they won’t be able to find Wayne by nightfall and that they should retreat until morning, and Maxim appears to agree with her, sitting down on a large boulder and letting his head fall in his hands. Micah’s silent, pacing up ahead, determined to locate the doomed tribute. I rub my hands together in a futile attempt to keep them warm, my fingers slowly going numb at the tips from the creeping chill. Not good.</p><p class="p1">     “Guys, I found the trail. That dumbass covered his tracks but not his waste.” I see him step back, recoiling at the evidence that Wayne apparently thought the snow would have buried by now. I roll my eyes.</p><p class="p1">     “Ugh, gross, let’s just get this over with.” I hear the thin layer of snow crunch as Crystal marches past him, heading down through a narrow crevasse with the other two tributes following close behind. I wait, then sneak through after them. I’m carefully stepping down a precarious stack of small boulders, vulnerable without immediate cover when I hear the first echoing yell.</p><p class="p1">     Forgetting the need to prevent small, presence-announcing avalanches of rocks, I crouch and tumble down twenty feet of rock before ducking into an outcropping in the crevasse, giving them space before I start to follow again. </p><p class="p1">     They’ve found Wayne. I only have to hang back and listen to several prolonged minutes of begging, pleading, and negotiating punctuated by screams as either Crystal or Micah carve into his vulnerable flesh to prolong the agony. I have a fleeting thought for his parents; this might be the slowest death of the Games so far, and those are particularly excruciating to watch.</p><p class="p1">     At some point, the parents and the viewers alike beg for the death to happen along with the victim just so it’ll end.</p><p class="p1">     After several rounds of begging, taunting, painful choking sounds, and an unmistakable death rattle, Wayne falls to the Career pack. A dozen heartbeats pass; his cannon booms. The three Careers are chortling over his body as I clench my eyes shut, adrenaline coursing through my chilled limbs, my numb extremities.</p><p class="p1">     “He was almost easier to take out than that Seven squirt down at the river,” I hear Micah gloat, and fire burns through my guts in response. I unlatch the axe blade from my back, twisting it in my palms to generate friction. The three-to-one odds are behind me now; it’s these three motherfuckers and I’m that much closer to getting the fuck out of here. They’re kicking snow over Wayne’s body, laughing and taunting the corpse in the few moments they’ll have before the Gamemakers anxiously usher them away when I decide that it’s now or never.</p><p class="p1">     I break, tearing down into the cliff’s edge and abandoning the last shred of preservation for my continued safety. I swing the axe in a horrific arc over my head, slicing through Maxim’s prone back, blood spraying over Wayne’s still-warm body, a cracking of bone ringing in my ears a half-second before his choked scream, his body slumping onto the prone form of his victim. I wrench the blade out of his back, swinging it behind me with a feral yell to catch the advance of Crystal, a knife held out in front, her teeth baring.</p><p class="p1">     She grossly underestimated the length of the handle, the unchecked fury embedded in my movement. I catch her in a searing cut from her collarbone through her jaw, her neck opening in a spray of deep bloodred as she staggers backward, dropping the knife in the snow now peppered with her blood. She grabs at the wound with both hands, staring at me, but I can only focus on the blood. It’s viscous, red, body matter and flesh parts coagulate in the snow, covered in red and white and brown and I feel my stomach churning but I pull the axe back, raising it above my head and screaming bloody fucking murder so that the sound echoes through the valley. I receive no second wind, no competition but the whistling wind as it tears through the impasse. Three bodies lie at my feet, my chest is heaving, and I register that Micah is still left standing. Two more cannons boom, the dreadful sounds echoing in the frozen air. </p><p class="p1">     I whirl, blinking through the barrage of snowflakes and ice particles to try and see him. Has he fled? That coward. I scream to let him know I'm coming for him next, letting my voice echo through the crevasse, a resounding sound that terrifies the tiny part of my subconscious that's still sane. I’m hot with rage, my hands coated in blood, splatters on my face and forehead beginning to drip down into my eyes. My fingers are numb, my toes even more so.</p><p class="p1">     I scan my surroundings for a dark figure against the white terrain and finally spot him, backing up into the chasm from where we’d all come, his hands held out in a cautious, plaintive gesture. I blink hard enough to see his expression; he’s scared.</p><p class="p1">     “Come down here and face me, motherfucker!” I scream, nothing left in this world but me, the axe, and this tribute’s figure, dark and shivering against the rocky white and gray of the landscape.</p><p class="p1">     “Hey, Seven, listen, I didn’t mean—.”</p><p class="p1">     I know he’s playing dumb to try and stave me off, and I don’t care. I run forward, swinging the axe in a practiced and furious arc as I reach him, but he predictably meets me with a wooden, metal-tipped spear of his own. I’m forced back, my feet slipping on the frosty rocks, and he gains ground on me for a moment. I grunt, staring into his eyes for a split second before jerking the axe away and letting the momentum carry him down to my level, stumbling and slipping on the rough terrain.</p><p class="p1">     My brain slices through the next few moments like blinding lightning, agonizing pieces of memory that will haunt me later but are splintered now in an attempt to protect my mind. I’m slicing, I’m stabbing, I’m seeing blood spilling down the rocky hillside in rivulets, I’m hearing the dying gasps of the fourth teenager within an hour rattle into the chill air, a puff of white marking the dying breaths of a murderer brought down by my hands.</p><p class="p1">     I’m standing over the body of a slain enemy, a teenager, a bloody axe in my hand, my chest heaving. The fourth cannon booms. </p><p class="p1">     Micah is dead, the first step to avenging Alder completed. I will have a lifetime's worth of steps to pursue after this one. I don’t know who exactly is left in the arena, but numbers-wise, only one remaining tribute stands between me and getting the fuck out of here. </p><p class="p1">     Time to track down the second-to-last bitch left standing. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>my apologies for the delay! i got quite stuck but i skipped around while drafting and i now have several entries written so updates will be regular for a while~</p><p>* chapter song: help i'm alive // metric *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. i was gonna die young, now i gotta wait for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna is bloody and desperate. My eyes are glued to the coverage now that it’s just two of them left, Johanna and one final opponent, circling each other in a devastating dance. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The standoff with District Four’s female tribute, Reva, is hours long; the two remaining tributes taunting each other in a tense standoff. Reva has a calculated air about her, light on her feet and squaring off as if she’s waiting for Johanna to lose her cool and pounce, ruining her advantage and allowing Four’s tribute to dive in with her bloodied spear and win the Games.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     These final confrontations are typically bookmarked by hushed comments from the commentators, predictably in awe of this last standoff, the final moments when the audience is fully enraptured, unsure who will live as the victor and who is doomed to a brutal death, the hallmark of the runner-up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     It’s early but I’ve bustled Prim off to her room for the night, tucked under her little blankets with enough herbal tea to hopefully slip her into sleep. I haven’t eaten all day, I realize with a casual nonchalance that belies the hunger gnawing at my stomach. I retrieve a heel of bread we’ve scrounged from the bakery in town and settle back on the worn rug. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna’s hair is stringy, plastered to her forehead and the back of her neck with sweat as she navigates the uneven terrain of the mountain foothills, struggling to maintain an upper ground as her opponent dodges and weaves her advances with an uncomfortably fast speed — she definitely has more energy between the two of them, Johanna having just struggled down from the mountain range on minimal sleep. But, other than the spear and a few knives at her side, Reva wields no substantial weapons. Johanna has her double-edged axe, dipped in blood and ready to take one more before retirement. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “A timeless clash of breathless, feminine agility with angry, brute strength,” Flickerman intones over a wide drone shot that captures the two tributes circling each other, teeth bared. I flinch at the sound of his voice, too calm and measured to encompass the weight of the final confrontation onscreen. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Ah yes,” Templesmith adds in, another unnecessary intrusion, “the District 4 girl has notched very few kills in her belt, so to speak; very unusual statistics, indeed! As the audience may recall, earlier she verbalized that she was quite dissatisfied with the proceedings. I do hope the poor girl fully understands the rules of this Games before it’s too late for her to realize her full potential.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Mmm, indeed. On the other hand, though, our little District 7 wood nymph has been on quite a spree since her district partner met his tragic end, has she not? Three kills in quick succession, and she’s hungry for more? My, my, quite the rage in that one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I seethe at the unfair comparison. Johanna watched her young district partner bleed out, of course she retaliated against the Careers. She wants to try to avenge him and come home. I glance at the closed door to Prim and I’s room, thinking that if the positions were switched, I’d like to think I’d do the same for her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A yell drags my attention back to the flickering live footage. Reva has thrown a knife, catching Johanna in the upper arm. She clutches it, the heavy axe hanging loosely from her injured arm as blood starts to pour down the entire length of exposed skin. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The shot zooms in, better to capture the audio and the stricken expressions on the desperate tributes’ faces. This is endgame.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “What are you waiting for, <em>Johanna</em>?” The District 4 girl taunts her opponent, fueled by the small victory she snatched from Johanna’s injury. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I don’t want to do this, Reva!” Johanna yells, readjusting her grip on the axe handle. “But I can’t stay here. I need to go home.” The tiny break in her voice at <em>home </em>makes me dig my fingernails the carpet, my heart in tatters. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I saw those names in the sky last night,” Reva spits back, “you bloodthirsty little bitch. Who else could have taken out the Careers like that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna staggers up a set of loosely stacked boulders, somehow managing to use her feet to scramble up the rocks and gain a few feet of elevation. The sickly picturesque mountain range behind her looks like a painting, a fake backdrop. “I took advantage of the broken alliance. You could’ve done the same thing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m feeling more anxious by the second, my heart pounding as my adrenaline ramps to levels I’ve rarely experienced before. They were the only two left, and if they kept at this argument, the Careers would throw in some tragic element to push them over the edge.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Doesn’t matter, you took care of them, I took care of Poppy, and now it’s just us left, sweetheart!” Reva laughs, high pitched and tinged with a desperate hitch that bled into insanity. The camera focuses in on Johanna’s strained face, her eyes bulging from sunken sockets, hands coated in her own blood gripping the handle of the axe. I see her arms shake slightly, with the exhaustion or the anxiety I’ll never know. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna grits her teeth, resigning herself to…something. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She swipes one hand across her forehead in a move that leaves a smear of dark red blood across her face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The Gamemakers have evidently decided that they’ve been dragging this out for too long. A rumble sounds in the distance, and both tributes look up into the immaculate, picture perfect mountains after wildly scanning the foothills for a more immediate source. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     An avalanche. The arena is threatening to bury them both if this isn’t over soon. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Reva scans the ridges above them, likely trying to determine how much time they have left. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna chooses that moment to strike. She jumps down from the collection of boulders, hefting the axe over her head as she bears down on Reva, who’s caught off guard by the Gamemaker distraction. Johanna screams, and the axe head buries itself in between Reva’s shoulder and neck. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The District Four tribute lets out a horrible, gurgling sound before using her other arm to drive her second knife in between Johanna’s ribs before the Seven tribute can wrench the axe free and roll away. Both girls now covered in blood, they stagger apart and stare at each other for an impossibly long second, chests heaving, gushes of deep red pouring out of the gashes in their bodies. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The rumbling slows to an infuriating gravelly sound, leaving the audience to wonder if the avalanche was a bluff or if the Gamemakers had achieved their desired goal and no longer needed the element. The commentary always steered them towards the latter opinion. The only tribute in living memory to have truly tested that conundrum was Haymitch Abernathy, my district’s only living victor. No one talks about that, though. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’ve completely lost the ability to breathe, my chest tightening like a giant fist is closing around my ribcage, squeezing out every gasp of air my coal dust-coated lungs can muster. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Reva attempts to stand, then falters; her collarbone appears to have been broken by the force of the blow. She spits to the side and groans, her good hand grasping for another nonexistent knife but Johanna looms over her, an ominous shadow crossing over the District Four tribute’s panicked face. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The knife is still sticking grotesquely out of Johanna’s side, and she’s had the sense not to yank it out and draw more blood. The commentators have gone silent. I hear every district holding their collective breaths, simultaneously desperate for this trauma to wrap up for another year but hoping that something might change to save both teenagers gasping for air on screen, covered in blood, driven to murder each other at all costs. Two tributes have never come out of the same Games alive, unfortunately. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     No such savior appears, just Johanna Mason, heaving the bloody double-edged weapon over her head as time continues to crawl in the slowest pace possible. I can only look at her eyes. They’re bloodshot, the whites showing, and I have a feeling she’ll be called unhinged and crazy in the aftermath, but all I can see is unimaginable pain. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna brings down the axe directly down into Reva’s chest. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The petite District 4 tribute lets out a gasp, a final death rattle. Johanna releases her grip on the handle and staggers backwards, ending up pressed against a large slab of boulder as she clutches the knife handle with its blade in her side and watches her final opponent choke out a few long, drawn out breaths before falling still.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I realize I’ve been holding my breath for several moments, finally letting it out in a slow, shaky exhale as the final cannon booms. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna takes several deep breaths, staring at the lifeless body in front of her as the prophetic voice sounds, echoing in the arena with cold finality. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">     “Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you the winner of the 71</span> <span class="s2"> <sup>st</sup> A</span><span class="s1">nnual Hunger Games.”</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A sick relief like I’ve never felt before washes over me, soaked in the blood of the tributes that had fallen, weighed down as if a shroud had been dipped in the blood of 23 deceased teenagers, their bodies lifted up to the heavens by unfeeling drones as the lone teenage victor stands shellshocked, staring wide-eyed at the final body in front of her. My conscious brain has registered maybe half a dozen Games before this one, but I can feel the memory of this one being branded into my brain, unable to escape the sheen of childhood amnesia.  </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">     Tributes usually take a few moments to process and then allow the satisfaction of their victory to seep through their veins, jumping in glee or sinking to the ground in a heap of relieved sobs. Not Johanna, though. She stays pressed against the boulder, staring at the still, uncollected body, her chest heaving. The anthem plays, and the footage is about to cut to a live recap of the final moments of the 71</span> <span class="s2"> <sup>st </sup></span><span class="s1">annual Games while the Gamemakers collect a shocked victor into their…embrace? If you can even call it that. </span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Johanna won. She actually <em>won. </em>Against everything, she fought and avenged her district partner and will return to her family in one piece. I soak up the live image of her on the screen, simultaneously drawn to her energy and repulsed by the blood dripping from her hands, splattered across her face, smeared across her forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     She won, but at what cost?</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p3">
  <span class="s1">END OF PART ONE</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: die young // sylvan esso *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. throw me a line, somebody out there help me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>PART TWO </p><p> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Someone shoves a champagne glass in my hand and lightly exclaims the thousandth congratulations I’ve heard all evening, but all I can muster is a blank stare in return. The steady stream of bubbles in the immaculate crystal flute rises and disperses, excited to make their presence known, but I’d rather melt into the floor than face my tenth fucking Capitol celebration. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They won’t fucking <em>tell</em> <em>me</em> when I can go back to District Seven, to finally see my family. President Snow is away on unexpected business, they keep saying. He wants to speak to me personally, <em>congratulate</em> me on the brutal slaughter before packing me up and sending me home in tatters. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I haven’t even been allowed to call them. They stuck me back in our old apartments in the tribute tower, devoid of any phones or tablets there that I can use to reach them. All I have is the rerun footage of the top 8 family interviews that I can’t even think of now without hot tears springing up at the corners of my eyes. I even tried to bribe a Capitol reporter with an exclusive quote in exchange for a call from her device, but she only clutched at her literal string of pearls from District 4 and stammered that she couldn’t possibly break any rules. Figures. They compel me to commit multiple murders of minors on national television but I can’t get one fucking phone call in return. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The ballroom sparkles under the soft light of a dozen crystal chandeliers, occasionally showering a thin sheet of glitter on the rapturous guests. They’ve stuck me in a dark green dress, colored for my district and cut for my figure, still too big to account for the weight and the will to live that I’ve abandoned in the mountain arena. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Every time I look down at my hands, my forearms, I see my skin coated in dark red blood even though the skin has been scraped clean, the ragged fingernails since trimmed and re-shaped. My own blood mixed with those whose lives I ended stains my skin nonetheless. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I take a sip of the champagne, the dry alcohol searing the back of my even drier throat as I survey the scene, the dozens of Capitol socialites revolving around each other in an unnervingly practiced dance, like this was the main event of the year and they were feverishly performing what they’d studied in their mansions and penthouse apartments. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Likely scenario, actually, I think as I watch a gaggle of young socialites in the corner glance at me and then furtively direct their glances back at the gyrating crowd. I feel my cheeks burn red, with embarrassment and shame alike. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight staggers up to me after a time, sufficiently drunk and similarly not allowed home until I’m released from Capitol custody. He seems intent on forgetting this whole affair, leaning against a stone pillar to my right as he precariously balances a glass of dark, amber whiskey splashing inside a crystal tumbler. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Mason, my esteemed charge, why not enjoy yourself on this fine evening?” he gestures widely, the whisky splashing outside the rim of the glass and splattering the marble floor below, emphasizing that “this is all for you, after all.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “How the <em>fuck</em> can you possibly be enjoying this?” I hiss, my knees locking in place in the hopes that I'll make myself pass out. He leans in closer, his breath putrid. Has he already thrown up?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Makes the time go by faster if you can’t remember it, Mason. There’s nowhere to go but forward, lucid or not, in any case.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He tosses me half of an imaginary, unanswered toast with a nearly-empty glass and staggers away, leaving me to consider a truth only a careless drunkard could impart. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I take another, much larger sip of my champagne, welcoming the burn this time. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight finally signals that we’re free to leave after another literal parade of Capitol suckups manage to kiss my hand and tell me how brave I’ve been, how proud they are of my accomplishments. I almost throw up in the tribute elevator but make it to the apartments without upheaval. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Lacy isn’t with us anymore. She’s been on a press tour of sorts, and I suspect she leaped at the first opportunity to switch to a fancy Capitol hotel over the prospect of tiptoeing around sulky old me. The other mentors have been dismissed since their tributes are, well, deceased now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     So as it stands, it’s only Blight and I remaining in the entire tower. I can tell that he resents the fuck out of that, of me. I’d want to head home to my posh Capitol-provided mansion too if I were him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Goodnight, Mason,” he sighs heavily, staggering towards his old room as I face the twin doors that lead to the tribute rooms, <em>Johanna </em>and <em>Alder </em>still engraved in plaques of cedarwood, stark reminders of where we’d been mere weeks before this moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Later, Blight. Drink some fucking water before you pass out.” I don’t wait for a reply before entering Alder’s room instead of my old one on an impulse, and it's thankfully unlocked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I almost lose my shit as I enter the doorway and process my eyesight to the darkness within. The room had preserved its tribute’s latest personalized configurations, and tiny, precious Alder had chosen a glen in a northern forest, similar to Seven’s territory in terms of tree species but teeming with young wildlife. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A tiny group of bunnies congregates in one of the corners, staring up at me with beady black eyes against fluffy white fur. I notice a flock of birds land on the ceiling-high branches, trilling their pleasure at the sight of a human in their midst. A fawn leaps in from another corner, ears twitching as it settles in, and looks right at me. The animals seem more lifelike than typical wildlife, but what brings me to my knees is the preset settings kicking into play. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Alder had designed a virtual wildlife sanctuary for himself and these tiny, virtual animals, his one solace until he was sent to a mountain arena to bleed out on a riverbank and die under an unfeeling blade while I watched. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My chest caves in on itself and I sink to the floor, unable to stem the rapid progression of my heartbeats, constricting my lungs and all but suffocating me. I reach a weird equilibrium after several minutes, horizontal on the floor with tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes, level with a curious cluster of chipmunks congregating in my field of vision, looking for their lost friend that will never return to them. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Day five post-Games dawns and I’m raring up to murder Blight in his sleep out of pure boredom when he finally tells me that I’m scheduled to meet President Snow in a few hours, and then I’m due on a Seven-bound train that same afternoon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My hand clenches around a butter knife, meant for more nefarious purposes only a second ago, now serving as a grounding mechanism to keep me tied into the conversation. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “You’re serious? I’m back home by tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight sighs heavily, rubbing his temples, clearly hungover. I’m annoyed, but I don’t blame him. “Yes, Mason, that’s the plan. Snow came back from wherever the fuck he’s been all this time and his secretaries managed to pencil in their latest Victor for a chat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I’m flattered.” I bite into a heel of bread, still attempting to replenish the lost calories in my system while fighting near-constant nausea at the continuing horror of being alive. “Why won’t they let me contact my family?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “It’s standard procedure. They want the reunion on camera for the post-Games special.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “That’s fucked up," I reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight looks directly at me, eyes black and expression empty. “Par for the course, Mason. Get ready for the real charades to start.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m suddenly a little curious. There isn’t exactly a pamphlet the Capitol hands out when the drones haul you back to civilization in tatters, entitled something nauseating like <em>Congratulations, you survived your Hunger Games! Here are the top 10 tips to reclaim your humanity and kiss the Capitol’s ass for the rest of your miserable life!</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight is less than forthcoming, per usual. He shoves his chair away from the table and starts to walk back to his rooms when I decide that I’ve had enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t think enough of my chances to send me sponsor gifts in the arena, which was a bummer,” I say. “Can you at least prep me for what’s coming next?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I almost regret saying it; I didn’t have a chance in hell until I went on my jolly axe warpath on the last day, but I don’t take it back. He stops, taking an eternity of a second to think, then pivots on one heel, his expression completely devoid of emotion and energy. I suddenly become suspicious that something’s happened to him while I was in the arena, but I keep my mouth shut for once. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I’ll brief you on the train home. Good luck with Snow.” He offers a half-hearted salute and I’m left to pick over my remaining steak and eggs, desperately needing the protein but unable to shove it past the lump in the throat to reach my stomach. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Two Avoxes usher me to the President’s chambers through a series of underground hallways that all look exactly the same. They were a different set than the ones assigned to the tribute apartments; they must be assigned to Snow himself. One has short-cropped blonde hair, deep shadows under her eyes barely obscured by a thick layer of makeup. The other, another blonde guy that was almost exactly the same height as his counterpart, never looks me directly in the eyes. I follow, flanked by the two silent servants who I’m really fucking hoping aren’t siblings or something, as the hallways seem to stretch out endlessly as the intermittent lights blare with a steady stream of light that floods the space. It’s a completely, intentionally extravagant use of resources. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The mute pair leads me up into the ground levels, finally loading me onto an elevator that ascends rapidly to Snow’s quarters. The long carpet leading up to a set of gilded double doors is plush and a deep, blood-red; a color I never want to see ever again but apparently the primary color of the esteemed president’s interior design tastes. Tapestries of wars long past stitched mainly in bright red and deep black threads line the walls, a parade of useless side tables each containing a giant vase of fresh red roses. The sickly sweet smell wafts through the air like a permanent perfume. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The blonde, robotic Avox twins stand at attention on either side of the door as I stand in the middle of the stupid rug, feeling an invisible tether pull me forward by an invisible hook in my navel, a tugging sensation that is nauseating but compelling. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The doors swing open and I step forward, an awkward, murderous puppet to an unfeeling master.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">     “Johanna Mason, I am honored to officially welcome you as the newly minted victor of our 71</span> <span class="s2"> <sup>st</sup> </span> <span class="s1"> annual Hunger Games.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I long to snark back “Nice of you to finally pencil me in,” but something about his demeanor chokes me into silence. The smell of roses continues to invade my sinuses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He’s sitting at the other end of the most elaborate and expensive-looking desk I’ve ever seen, hands folded and what could technically be called a smile pasted on his unnaturally full lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I continue to step forward, walking on pins and needles as my legs feel less and less like my own. My less-than-helpful leaden stumps manage to deposit me into the garishly gilded chair at the other side of the desk. I have no idea what to do with my hands.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Snow regards me with bushy white eyebrows, silent for entirely too long while I struggle for words, finally choking out a feeble croak. “I look forward to seeing my family soon,” I offer helplessly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Ah yes, your family,” he says, and I’m scared shitless that he’s about to qualify that statement somehow, but he takes a deliberate pause and continues, “the country is excited along with you, we are all thrilled that you’ll be returning home to District Seven in due time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I nod slowly, my veins rivers of newly formed ice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     His false smile widens, and I see that his gums are blood red, for some ghastly reason. They stand out on his pallid face like a gash across pale skin, the blood beneath showing through in an unnatural contrast. I can feel my shallow breaths rattling around in my chest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “As I’m sure you’re aware, you and your family will be promptly installed in one of our generous homes in the Victor’s Village in the District and given some time to settle into your new lives together. Five months from now, your escort from the Games will return and guide you and Victor Blight through the much-anticipated Victory Tour, where you will be privy to the gratitude and resilience of all the Districts in their continued patriotism towards the prosperity of Panem, isn’t that wonderful?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     His voice grows soft at the end of that question as if to convey a measure of sentimentality or pride, but all I can divine is a threat. It had better be wonderful, he’s saying, or you’re fucking screwed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He stands, turns his back to me to stand at an impressive double window, curtains pulled back as he regards the bustling city below. Fear constricts my throat as the pause lengthens, intensifying when he speaks again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “You’re a beautiful girl, Johanna. In the prime of your life, now, a Victor with incredible strength and demonstrated virility.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     Oh, fuck no. </em>Losing my composure, I whip my head around wildly, looking for an open door or a witness or both, but the double doors are shut tight and there’s no one else in the room; the Avoxes are still in the hall. Not that they’d be much help anyway if the president of Panem tries some shit with me, but my stomach is still dropping through several floors of altitude. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Thanks, but I’m not exactly your type.” <em>I hope. </em>My teeth are gritted so tightly I can easily imagine them grinding into dust.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He turns, a creepy-ass grin spreading across his stupid perv face. I grip the arms of the red plush chair and desperately wish they were axe handles, even just sticks, something I could use to end this motherfucker where he stood. I’m certain that the doors are locked and I’m trapped here until he says otherwise. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Thankfully for the stability of the country and the immediate continuation of my life on this miserable planet, he stays put by the window and elaborates. “My dear girl, I am speaking on behalf of the Capitol’s elite. They are enthralled with the Games, and do sorely wish to have…<em>close </em>access to young, vibrant tributes such as yourself.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Unwittingly, my hands start to tremble. I can guess at what he’s implying, and I hate it even though five minutes ago I was convinced that I couldn’t hate anything more than this charade, the Games, the dead tributes, the circus of it all. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I need to go back to my family. Please let me go home.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     His smile fades slightly, and I’m a reluctant witness to an attempt to pass the comment off as humor land on the floor with all the silent horror of someone suddenly dropping an infant on purpose. He laughs, but it’s too delayed and definitely sounds more like he’s choking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I mean only the best for you, Johanna, but the passionate cohort of Games sponsors look for more…exclusive perks after they are over, shall we say.” He places his palms on the desk and leans forward, and I know a threat when I hear one. I almost gag on my own saliva at the implication, but there’s more. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “You will receive more information when you return to the Capitol after your Victory Tour," he says, and I imagine blood staining his lapel, my fingernails carving rivulets down the side of his stupid face, "enjoy your time with your family before you leave, as your services will be required in the Capitol for an extended period of time once you arrive back in the city.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m not one to be struck into silence, but the despot leader of the country implying that he’ll sell me into some underground sex business in six months catches me off guard and I take several seconds to collect my thoughts, voicing a final dissent. “What if I want to return home after the Tour instead?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He smiles again. I look down at my arms, and once again, they’re coated in the deep red blood of those I’ve slain, dripping down and staining the pristine carpeting of the presidential office. Red swims behind my eyes. There's blood everywhere I look, a wave of bleeding roses threatening to drown me in another tsunami. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Oh, my dear, for your sake, and your family’s, I very much hope that you choose to remain with us in the Capitol.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: trembling hands // the temper trap *</p><p> </p><p>i have so appreciated everyone's comments so far, thank you as always for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. we're caught up in the crossfire of heaven and hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>additional cws for this chapter: self-harm ideation, suicidal ideation, graphic character death.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     The long-awaited reunion with my family really was one for the cameras, so screw them if they decided to film every single intimate second, I didn't care. Dara and Jay reached me first as I stepped off the train, my feet barely solid on the platform as their warm little bodies engulfed me and I breathed in the smell of their hair, absorbed their excited laughs, clung to them as my parents approached with Maggie in tow, clinging to my mother’s hand and looking a little scared. She eventually let me give her a hug as I waved away the cameras from ducking in a little too close. My father laughed, an event that I carved into my memories like a certain smell during the holidays, the tinkle of the children’s laughter as they play with abandon while the adults drink together and marvel at the innocence, the peace. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I beat my bloody fists into the thin plaster of the foyer wall of our family home, over and over until I’ve torn a dent through the molding to reach the wooden slats underneath. The wood isn’t even from my district, it’s a cheap pine from the south, the one mundane detail my brain annoyingly decides to register. Splinters and chips of plaster dig into my skin as I scream, the sound sent towards an unfeeling sky as the cheap plaster wall gives way to my continued blows. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     Once the cameras fully captured the reunion and abandoned District 7 until they were called back again for the Tour, I could finally allow my fists to unclench, my shoulders to relax. My family convened for one final night in the old shack of a home until we could be moved into the new lodgings that next morning. My mother, bright-eyed and flushed, alternated between packing up our possessions and just sitting next to me, one arm tucked around my waist, her head resting on my shoulder as my hair brushed the top of her head. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I’ve never felt safer than with her at my side, my father downing another beer and laughing with his entire chest. I laugh too, feeling some of the anxiety, the fear, the creepy conversation with Snow slide off me like water on an otter’s back, trouble for a time but gone before the impact can drag me down. I shoved it into my future, wanting to enjoy this moment. My siblings played together, but close to me as if they needed my presence to continue with their babble and unbridled joy as they fed off the light in the room, the returned peace. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I hurl as much glass as I can find, taking little comfort in the resulting shatters, thousands of shards flying to all corners of the house. Nothing is safe from my wrath, my primal desire to destroy everything in sight. I would’ve torn down the entire fucking Victor’s Village with my bare hands if I’d had the strength. The shoddily constructed houses are a tinderbox, my rage a match, my grief the flame. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     Dara and Maggie squealed with excitement as my mother unlocked the grand front doors to our new home; as the girls ran inside, she met my eyes with a warmth tinged in sadness, a look that conveyed all the hardship our family had endured, marred by the cost we paid to be here, but unable to keep herself from appreciating the gift we’d been given in return. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I set my duffel bag down in the foyer and hoisted Jay in my arms as we went searching for his new room. Kids in our district never had their own rooms, and the littles were ecstatic at the opportunity, the biggest direct impact on their little lives. I would’ve slept in the woodshed to keep those smiles on their faces forever. I would’ve gladly endured frostbite and bone-chilling wind to keep that serene yet quietly solemn smile on my mother’s face, the laughter in my father’s voice, the goddamn peace in the house as a permanent fixture. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I grab a particularly large sliver of glass and grasp it in one palm, my hand shaking as the shard cuts into my hand and blood begins to drip on the carpet. I hold out my other arm, a willing wrist ready to end it all, my remaining life force rallying behind a single gesture as I know I’m so fucking close to bringing the shard down, ending it all with a few violent strokes, taking myself out of a world that never wanted me in it to begin with. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     We made enough from my winnings that my father could have left his job and we would have lived comfortably, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He kept his job at the lumber mill, donating his earnings to different families in need when his paychecks came through. I had no use for money beyond what my family needed to be comfortable, so I’d donate as much as I could, and take slow walks around the mostly empty Victor’s Village, my eyes sliding past the dim light in Blight’s residence to the dozen empty mansions that could house so many families. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     What a waste. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     Parcel Day arrived, the first of the twelve promised, and I found a secluded spot in the town square to watch the little ones squeal excitedly, unwrapping their candies and dry goods and fresh, exotic fruits and vegetables from other districts. Two little girls held out oranges to each other in awe, completely baffled — they’d never seen them before.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I watch the relieved faces of the parents as their charges return with armfuls of food, but the moment is cut short when a phantom pain on my temple shoots through my skull, the heavy cloak of a migraine descending on my vision, blurring the edges as the memory of blood drips into my eyes, stinging them shut. I’m indulging in a final moment of peace. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I look up one last time, my vision catching a gilded photo frame holding an older, grainy image of my family. My siblings beaming, me standing in the back, choppy bangs covering my sullen face, and my parents somehow holding it together behind soft smiles and sad eyes. My mother had accidentally pricked her finger on the glass as she’d slid the photo into the frame, a spot of bright red almost ruining the print. I’d grabbed her a bandage and she looked at me, still smiling despite the pain. We’d never owned a real picture frame before. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     The Tour was complete bullshit. The same speech, staring into the stricken eyes of parents and siblings and aging grandparents, stumbling through the spotlights and the endless train rides and the charade of it all. My stylist seemed to have received a prime directive to dress me as sexily as possible despite my constant protests, even sticking me in an outlandish two-piece gown for Four that showed my stomach to a somber crowd of traumatized district residents. My face burned as I unsuccessfully avoided looking at Reva’s mother, wrapped in a veil and prostrate on her knees. She was understandably shocked that I stood in front of her looking like the Capitol’s newest sex symbol, fumbling through an apology for murdering her daughter with an axe.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I had never been more embarrassed. I had never wanted to go home more, and that included the Games. The Capitol loomed in my future like a dark mountain from the arena, and I made myself sick every night in dreaded anticipation of turning down Snow’s insidious request so I could go back home and try to live in peace. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     The victor’s last stop in the Tour before the Capitol is always their home district, so I had at least one more chance to see my family. That rainy morning, the bullet train pulls up to the familiar wooden station and I disembark, winning my only wardrobe battle of the entire fucking trip as I’m escorted to my District’s central square in my own boots, a fitted green jacket, and comfortable black pants. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I gave the pre-written, unchanged speech through a blur of tears, they let me have an hour with my family, one last moment of peace, and then it was off to the Capitol. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I scream and keep screaming, the noise filling the cavernous living room, the too-high ceilings doing little to absorb the noise. A thunderclap sounds overhead, my brain registers the pattering of raindrops on the roof as I force myself not to look down, squeezing my eyes shut instead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blood seeps into the hem of my dress as I’m frozen to the ground. A pool of my brother's blood coats my feet. The glass shard drops from my hand. I need to face this before it breaks me beyond repair. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     The final party in the Capitol was lavish; thousands of trays of fine food, a literal swarm of socialites buzzing about the latest empty gossip, my chest unbearably tight as the golden gossamer corset I’ve been stuffed into constricted my breathing. I take a fake sip of champagne, my feet pins and needles from the high heels. Either they put something in the food or I’m just fucking exhausted, and the night slides away in a haze of pulsating music and clouds of perfume. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     An unfamiliar woman collects me at the end of the night, and I was so exhausted that I assumed she was escort sent to take me back to the train. A few hallways later, she led me through a pair of double doors to a lush room filled with purple velvet, dimly lit as my eyes adjusted to see various people draped suggestively across couches and lounges, in various stages of undress, looking at me with a hunger in their eyes. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I turned to leave, but the doors were already shut. The woman leaned down to whisper in my ear, her sultry voice turning my stomach as I realized what was happening. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     The memory of Snow’s office wormed it's way back into my tired brain, and then the horrible woman made the implication crystal clear: my body in exchange for my services to the Capitol. A lose-lose situation for yours truly. A woman in a peacock feather dress slipped a thin strap down one shoulder, exposing her chest to drive home the point. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I blinked hard and saw Finnick Odair on a couch opposite me, wearing barely anything, his arms draped around a demurely smiling man and woman who wouldn’t stop caressing his body to watch me lose my shit in from of them. Finnick had a darkness behind his eyes, extended one hand to me as if to say, this is horrible, but you have to comply, and I’m here with you. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I wanted to pass out. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna? What’s going on?” I hear Blight’s voice for the first time in months since he was too much of a drunk to make it on the Tour. I turn to see him, drenched with rain, the whites of his eyes showing as he takes in the horrors of this scene, the start of the end of my life. I hate him. I suddenly want to kill him more than myself at that moment. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     “Why couldn’t you do something? Why didn’t you warn me?” </em>My hoarse scream is a thunderclap, my throat is raw, I can feel the blood seeping into my shoes and running down my arms and filling my lungs and — </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     I tried to leave. The woman held me in a vicelike grip by my upper arm, revealed her identity as a madame who reported directly to Snow. I’m to stay here, fulfill my preordained duties as a Victor, or my family will suffer the consequences. My throat filled with bile, and I didn’t resist the urge to spit in her face. She shoved me back, crying out in shock as the rich solicitors gasped in a robotic chorus that made me want to tear my hair out. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     "You’ll regret this if you choose to leave, Johanna Mason.”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>     My head filled with fire as I shoved my way past her, wrenched open the double doors, and ran through the halls until I found my way back to the train that would take me home. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Blight reaches me a second before my knees give way and I collapse to the ground, sobbing. The fresh pools of blood soak through the thin fabric of my dress. He says nothing, his breathing increasingly ragged as he stares at what I’d seen when I sprinted back to the home from the train, barefoot, still wearing the golden dress from the Capitol party. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The bodies of my entire family, their throats slit, dead long before I could reach them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The images are permanently seared into my brain even as I collapse into myself, sobbing hysterically. My little sisters were holding each other on the couch, their curls and dresses now drenched in blood. My little brother lies on the foyer carpet nearest to me. He must have answered the door. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My parents hadn’t even had time to rise from the kitchen table where they now lay slumped over in death, blood dripping from the wooden surface onto the floor in a deafening patter. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Somehow, Blight gets me out of the house but I can’t stop screaming. No one else comes to help. No one else hears me. He has to hold me down on the grass to keep me from running back in there and resuming the plan to take my own life and rejoin my family, escape cruelty that I could never outrun, a Game that I could never truly win. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I did win my Games, and this was the cost. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I should have died in that arena. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They’re gone, and it’s all my fault. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: crossfire // brandon flowers *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. running with my roots pulled up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     This is the third year I’ve been dragged back to the Capitol as a mentor, but the gut-wrenching pain that tears through my body at the sight of the city’s silhouette is still fresh as anything. I grasp the worn wooden handle of the seat I usually occupy in the corner of the train’s dining car, a fair amount of alcohol already coursing its way through my system as the train seems to fucking speed up as it approaches the city. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I blame Blight less and less for falling into liquor with each passing reminder that this is what winning the Games means; you’ve likely reached your life’s peak of succeeding at anything and it’s all downhill from there. I failed at being a sex symbol, failed at being a prostitute, I’ve failed two straight years in a row at keeping tributes alive past the Bloodbath, and the cycle is going to continue every year until I regrettably make it to old age and die. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>     You also failed to provide for your family, even though you promised.</em> I swallow down the permanent lump in my throat as I try not to think about them, ghosts that haunt my footsteps and will rattle in every breath I take for the rest of my miserable life. I had to beg, scream, and threaten murder before they let me move to a different house after what happened. They put me under constant surveillance for a year before I could convince the Capitol shrink and assigned security detail that I wasn’t going to off myself. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Truthfully, I decided that I needed to live, endure this endless fucking parade of pain for what I did to them. I can’t take an easier out, not after what I did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The compartment door slides open and the newly minted male tribute, Sam, tentatively steps through. I have given absolutely zero thought to my mentor strategy or lack thereof, so I’m relieved when he asks about the Capitol arrival instead of the arena. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’m about to choke out an answer when Lacy sweeps by me, a maple-colored dress flowing off her in leafy waves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Sam! Wonderful to see you. Big day ahead - the Tribute Parade is this evening, and there’s no time to waste to get you two ready to absolutely dazzle! Where is your lovely partner, darling Leigha?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     My blood runs cold. It’s the exact same phrase she’d carelessly tossed to Alder and I, right down to the impossible concept of getting us to dazzle under these conditions. I resist the urge to throw my whiskey glass before I stalk past the two of them to my compartment, sliding the door shut behind me. A small rabbit shimmers in the wall illusion, hopping over to me through a virtual forest to sit beside me, the tiny white fluff innocent and frozen in the pixels. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Alder’s ghost haunts me, too. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The routine I’ve only been through a few times now feels like an inevitability; disembarking the train, the first insanely awkward dinner, showing the new tributes their rooms while trying to stay on my feet. Blight disappeared from dinner and is nowhere to be seen. I shoot Alder’s old room a side glance as Sam walks through the same door, his head bowed; he hasn’t said a word since the train. I can tell that Leigha is trying to keep her spirits up by disassociating, a worthy attempt, but I saw enough tears spill into her soup at dinner to know that she’s fighting a losing battle with her subconscious. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I collapse on the bed in my assigned mentor room, the custom illusion walls painted completely black per my immediate request. I don’t want to see my district. I don’t want to see the fucking beach. I want to be absorbed into the plexiglass, indestructible walls that cost more than my district’s lumber processor to construct. I want them to consume me. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The Gamemakers throw this highly choreographed series of mandatory gatherings for the mentors as the kids are with the stylists preparing for the Parade; it’s intended to intermingle the throng of traumatized but over-caffeinated mentors with an interested group of potential sponsors to see if any matches can be made before the Parade even kicks off. I’m in a plain but tailored black suit, finally able to wear what I want to these fucking things after threatening to murder my stylist in his sleep if he stuck me in another gown. They finally switched out that imbecile with a woman named Clea, who is older, more reasonable, and actually listens to me when I tell her I will never wear a dress again or I will absolutely drive the heels of the expensive shoes through my own eyeballs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The expensive whiskey is the only good part about these parties. I down my second glass, finally remembering that I need to make an attempt at sponsor connections; maybe I could get those poor bastards a dose of medicine when they’re inevitably mutilated by the environment specifically engineered to kill them. A reward, if you will, but more like a broken life vest thrown by someone standing on land, laughing as saltwater fills your lungs. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The sniveling band of bettors is there, clustered in a corner and sending their members out to try and overhear as many conversations as possible to iron out their initial bets that will air during the Parade. A few reporters swarm through the crowd like wasps, buzzing about to scoop the latest developments, find the most popular tributes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     A few tiptoe near me, the supposedly desirable yet radioactive young victor with mysterious family life and a promising future as a mentor, if she would only stop drinking and concentrate. I have to swallow my tongue for every urge to spit back that I drink because my mysterious family was murdered by the government and I would like to forget that every time I’m dragged back to this miserable place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I sip my third whiskey after ignoring a knowing side-eye from the bartender, scanning the room to avoid Finnick Odair if at all possible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I haven’t actually spoken to him since we locked eyes that night at my fateful end-of-the-line Capitol bash. He tried to approach me during my first Games as a mentor, me raw with grief and barely able to stand as my initial batch of tributes were the first two slaughtered in the Bloodbath, me ill-equipped to help them, Blight similarly useless. I almost clawed Finnick’s eyes out when he tried reaching out, and, in a memorable picture that splashed across the Capitol gossip pages and involving a shredded feather pillow and a shattered tray of red wine glasses, told him that I wished he’d lost his Games so I wouldn’t have ever had to see his stupid face afterward. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He approaches me towards the end of the night anyway, the reporters busy with the mentors of District One’s pair of blonde, Greek god-like tributes capturing their attention. Their literal new golden children, I think with a slow roll of my eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Finnick, I thought we settled this,” I mutter through clenched teeth, my glass clutched in one hand, “I don’t want to talk to you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He’s dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, a deep sea-green this time, his usual smile melting away from his chiseled features that the whole country fawned over. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna, I…” He steps closer to me, breaching my perimeter of acceptable human closeness, but I refrain from lashing out. He takes a deep breath. “I know you hate me for my involvement in the shady Capitol bullshit, and I have a feeling you think I resent you for what happened to my tribute, but I want to help you. At least talk to me, please.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “You can’t help me.” I hiss back, shoving the image of Reva’s axe-impaled body, wounds inflicted by yours truly, to the depths of my subconsciousness. “I don’t have anything left to save.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     He goes still for a moment, a nominal reverence offered for the silent tragedy that had taken out my entire family. It only made my stomach bottom out, the unfortunate amount of whiskey in my system starting to work against me. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     “I can’t stand here for too long, the reporters will suspect that we have an affair brewing in secret. Let me know if you ever want to talk. I’ll find a way.” He saunters away without another glance at me, invading a jovial, drunk group of mentors and offering a toast. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     They all cheer, and my blood boils. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     Parade time. I’ve managed to remain sober enough to remark on Leigha’s and Sam’s outfits, a rude arrangement of white paper headdresses as leaves of a tree, somehow? And the stylists stuck the poor kids in brown, skintight bodysuits that expose all of the awkward curves and edges of puberty in a lazy attempt to elevate their juvenile fashion. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I find myself apologizing to the pair as the chariots lurch out to the long stretch of gravel, the roar of the Capitol citizens reaching a fervent height. I lean back against the wall as the chariots march out, orderly and ready for the visual assault. The cheers are at a fever pitch for the Careers, then they gradually die down as the outlying districts spur their horses into the thunderous fray. Our district is right around when they typically lose interest. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The last of the chariots rolls past; District 12, the perpetual ugly stepchild of the rest. I look up, unexpectedly catching the eyes of their female tribute situated on the right side of the chariot, her dark hair twisted back in an elaborate arrangement of braids, her fitted dress black and unassuming. A high collar obscures half of her face, but I sense a fighting spirit in her as her eyes flash, turning from me to the entrance ahead. Perhaps it’s false bravado, but I remember her Reaping as I watch the chariots stream out one after the other; Twelve’s female tribute volunteered for her younger sister. No one outside of the Careers volunteers. I store that away in my memory; maybe she’ll make something of herself in the Games. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     The announcer’s proclamations pulse through the earpiece in my left ear, as we must have access to their blowhard commentary at all times; “Two young people, holding their hands up, saying ‘I’m proud I come from District 12! I will not be overlooked!’ I love that!” I turn my head to see the last chariot erupt in flames. It takes a good second to realize that they're fake, but goddamn, they're spectacular. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I stare at the receding vehicle, the shockingly unprecedented gold and red flames billowing out behind the two 12 tributes as their steeds fall into line with the rest. She’s holding out a red rose thrown from the crowd as the cheering swells to a frantic height, and while I can’t see her expression from here, I’m sure she’s awestruck, exhilarated. If she has any sense, she’s frightened to death, too. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">     I’ll certainly be keeping an eye on her. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: rootless // marina  *</p><p> </p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. maybe tomorrow, i'll find my way home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     My tributes are too terrified to perform better than abysmal at the interviews the night before the Games. The lights are too bright, the audience is too intense, the pressure has built up to an unimaginable level. I give both of them some parting advice about finding water sources and sleeping in the trees if the arena provides them before they drag their feet to sleep, my throat closing up as I try not to imagine how much time they have left. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     They’ve removed the liquor from the tribute apartments, as I’ve painfully learned that they do to try and keep the mentors sober for the big day. I work through the stash I’ve squirreled away, alone in the sitting area. Blight’s passed out, the stylists are gone, the poor tributes are trying and failing to get a few hours of sleep as the inevitable creeps closer. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. A flush creeping up to my cheeks, I throw on a jacket and head up to the roof. Thankfully, the door is unlocked and I leave it ajar behind me in case some needlessly vindictive architect configured it only to lock from the outside. Fine by me if the wind swings it shut, though, I’ll happily starve up here surrounded by the forcefield, watching the expensive Capitol ants crawl over their stupid little gold-plated logs, living out their stupid little lives on the ground below. At least I’ll die above them all. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     The wind whips my hair as I draw my collar close to my face, letting my vision blur as the million pinpricks of light blend together, tears springing to my eyes as the cold air and my pent-up emotions start to tug some of the pain on my heart free, high up in the air where I’ve always felt more comfortable. This height is nothing compared to the pines back home, their resolute swaying, the intoxicatingly familiar scent, the scrape of wood underneath fingernails, a salve for a soul stuck on the ground. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “You’re Johanna, right? Johanna Mason?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I flinch at the unfamiliar voice, twisting around to see a dark-haired tribute in a fleecy nightgown, staring at me with a gleam of recognition like she’s seen me on TV. Oh, wait. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “Unfortunately, yeah. Aren’t you the girl from Twelve?”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     She crosses her arms, her gaze dropping to the tiled floor. She doesn’t reply, so I follow up, trying to sus out if I need to tell her about the forcefield around the roof or if she’s just getting some air. “You should be getting some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     She walks closer, and I see her gaze out to the noisy crowds below, a jarring contrast to the somber mood between us. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “I’m Katniss. I came up because I couldn’t turn my mind off,” she murmurs, and my heart softens. I remember that final night before the gong goes off to commence the endless march of pain, anger, fear, absolutely shitting yourself with a thousand emotions at once. Of course she can’t sleep. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I pat the ground next to me, and she looks confused for a moment before settling down an arm’s length away. I have no idea who I am to this girl, though I’m sure she remembers my Games, they were recent enough. My vision blurs with another film of tears that I have to choke back down.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     It’s silent for several moments, the initial awkwardness morphing into something like comfort as we both stare down at the maze of extravagance and privilege stretched out for miles at our feet. The tribute faces an unimaginable trial, sitting alongside the victor who emerged from the other end, only to discover that it was only the beginning of the lifelong torment. I don’t see myself as a mentor, only a one-time victor, doomed to fail at everything else in my life thereafter. I am a failed shepherd, and these poor kids are sheep lined up for slaughter. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I didn’t succeed as a Victor. Victors keep their families alive. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I sense that Katniss is looking at me, and I turn to look at her, dark hair falling over her shoulder, a deep sadness etched into her brow, the slight downward curve of her mouth. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “I remember watching your Games,” Katniss says with a touch of awe in her voice, and I chuckle back on instinct. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “Yeah, well, they were a shitshow,” I reply, launching into an automatic mentor-like response to a question she hasn’t asked. Her eyes widen slightly. “Just try to use the arena resources to your advantage and stay out of people’s way when they look angry. Sleep in trees if you can, they’re the safest shelter you’ll find in there.” It was canned advice that I’d tossed at my tributes, not knowing how to convey anything of worth to their doomed little faces. I’d won my Games out of pure spite and rage, after all. I stare back out into the night air, goosebumps prickling my forearms.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “If you could tell your younger self something before your Games that would’ve helped, what would you have said?” Katniss asks. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     The question wrenches my heart out of my chest and tosses it into the forcefield to barbecue. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I meet her gaze, my heart melting as I piece together her immediate willingness to volunteer for her little sister, her bravery in asking me this insanely personal question now, and I’m struck by the sincerity in my answer.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “I would have told myself to protect my family at all costs. I failed because I didn’t understand what that meant until it was too late. You’re already mostly there, kid, you don’t have anything to worry about.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     Katniss blinks slowly, and I know she gets it. It’s illegal to even speak to another district’s tribute, let alone provide advice or encouragement, but I don’t fucking care anymore. I keep going. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “Don’t lose yourself in there, Katniss. You got into this mess for your sister, they love that shit. Use it to your advantage.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     She smiles despite it all. “I rooted for you from the start, when I watched your Games. I saw what you did for your district partner.” I stiffen, but she persists, placing a hand on the floor between us. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “You didn’t go mad like they all said. You avenged him. I might not make it back to my sister and mother, but I’d like to know that I could make a difference even in there, to at least one person.”</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I hug my knees, my insides splintering. This teenager is slated to appear in a televised death arena in the morning, and here she is comforting <em>me</em>. I toss out the last shred of regard I have for the rules and ask if I can give her a hug. She’s surprised, but nods. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I gather the fleece encircling Katniss to my chest, and she hugs me back, forming a quickly forged closeness that I know I’ll hold close to my chest when she’s in the arena. She lets out a small sob, burying her head in my jacket. I breathe in the Capitol perfume clinging to her wrap, noticing an undercurrent of scents from her district, all woods and earth, persisting beneath. After a long moment, I let her go, standing up to leave. She could use some time alone up here. </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     “Johanna…” </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">     I turn back, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile back at her. “Enjoy the view, Katniss. I’ll be rooting for you in there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: maybe tomorrow // stereophonics  *</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. in the woods somewhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The 74th Annual Hunger Games kicks off in typical extravagant, callous, ceremonial fashion while I sit in the tribute apartments with Blight to watch our kids die. He mentions that maybe Leigha has a chance, she looks like she’s fast and she did get a decent score in training. I shake my head slowly, staring at the countdown clock suspended on the upper right-hand corner of the crystal clear television shot.</p><p>     At the first aerial glance, the arena is vast and wooded, reminding me of my own district. I’m not sure what the catch this year is as the cameras pan in wide, racing shots along a huge expanse of trees, pocketed by open clearings and occasional uneven terrain. Maybe the clearings stretch open to reveal bubbling pits of fiery lava or something. There are always trip wires embedded in even the most innocent-looking terrain; it’s meant to catch them off guard if it looks normal like this.</p><p>     A drone camera cuts to a close, circular zoom of the tributes’ faces as they stare wildly around them, trying to orient themselves in the blazing sunlight. I see Sam, and then Leigha. They’re too disoriented, disconnected from any strategy. I see Sam’s eyes lock onto a pack in the center of the pile of tempting goods in the Cornucopia and my heart sinks.</p><p>     The camera pans to Katniss last, the announcers' newly anointed underdog, and she’s staring at the ground not too far in front of her. I hope she’ll have enough wits about her to grab what she can and get the hell out of there.</p><p>     The countdown flashes over the Cornucopia, and Panem holds its collective breath. I glance at Blight, familiar darkness in his eyes as he watches the umpteenth pair of his tributes march to their deaths. The sun is too bright, the million reflective surfaces in the tribute apartments shining off all the expensive unnecessary shit lining the walls. I focus on a large vase with an ornate blue-and-white pattern as the countdown runs out, the gong sounds.</p><p>     I try not to look, but eventually, I force my eyes back to the screen. In seconds, the first blood has already been spilled; a young female tribute struck down as the fastest of the Careers gets his hands on a long knife from the pile of weapons; her blood sprays the grass.</p><p>     I scan for my tributes, already despairing that they’ve ignored my advice to grab something small and get away from the Cornucopia. Flashes on the curated screen tell me that they’ve both been drawn in by the resources piled around the gleaming golden structure.</p><p>     The pang of the delayed footage sears my insides. We are likely watching footage from thirty seconds to several minutes ago broadcast “live.” There’s a strong likelihood that they’re already dead, the footage of their slaughter not yet aired.</p><p>     Several thoughts bounce around in my skull. I should have helped them prepare more. There was nothing I could have told them that could save them now. I want to hurl into the giant vase and then throw the giant vase out of the window, shatter some glass, make some noise, but I’m frozen to my seat.</p><p>     My eyes begin to blur, my brain attempting to shut off the next few moments of input to preserve the remaining scraps of my sanity. The announcers are silent. The districts are silent. The adolescent grunts and over-amplified sounds of blades entering flesh are too loud.</p><p>     The silence rings in the ears of several million viewers, enraptured across the country.</p><p>     I blink hard, snapping back to the screen. Knives flash in artistic angles, gasps come through the audio feed in a disjointed manner, the initial scene of the Cornucopia devolving into pandemonium. Blight pours another drink. I curl up on the couch with a pillow clutched to my aching stomach, tears leaking out of the corners of one eye, staining the expensive green velvet.</p><p> </p><p>     The mentor lounge is buzzing and full of mentors; after the Cornucopia bloodbath, they make everyone gather mid-morning for camera access and because the charade of cruelty never ends. The Career mentors congregate in their own corner, assured that their charges have made it through the first crucial 30 minutes, insulated by the privilege their status affords them. The other mentors are grouped together, the single mentor from 10 and the sullen one from 12 occupying their own places as the blood seeps into the arena ground and the surviving tributes either flee or form teams. I find myself eyeing the sole mentor from 12; Haymitch Abernathy, the last Quarter Quell victor. The only thing we have in common is the creeping alcoholism. I make sure to avoid eye contact.</p><p>     I’m starting to disassociate again as the drone cameras pan the lush forest scene, zooming in and out as green landscapes and the golden Cornucopia are both soaked with scarlet splashes of red from bleeding teenagers. The scene looks simultaneously too real and not real at all, like some sick artist painted streaks of red across a green and brown landscape.</p><p>     Blood starts to pound in my ears. The plush mentor lounge with its cushions and readily available mimosas starts to spin in my periphery, and I can only scan the background footage looking for the bodies of my tributes. We the audience should know about the roster of the dead soon, though the living tributes have to wait until the nightly display for their reports.</p><p>     “Johanna?” I hear a voice to my right. I slowly turn my head, my body immersed in ice water. It’s Finnick, a resigned look on his face, his hand outstretched.</p><p>     “Finnick,” I reply, my voice heavy with hesitation.</p><p>     “My boy is dead, and my girl will make it through the night," he says, tone unwavering. "Care for a drink?”</p><p>     I stare at him, all perfectly chiseled features and perfectly despondent expression; I notice new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, frown lines hidden behind his smile. I feel my stomach churn as I accept his chivalrous hand, the eyes of the safe mentors from One and Two ogling the scandal as bodies from other districts lie bleeding into the arena ground.</p><p>     “Sure. Can’t hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>     I realize after two minutes of painful but deliberate small talk that Finnick is a genius; for the next few hours, no one in the Capitol or otherwise cares about the goddamn mentors. It’s all about the grieving families, the fresh bodies and the cannon accompaniments of their deaths, the surviving tributes making their shelters for the night and avoiding the inevitable. There are too many distractions to notice the jaded victors. The reporters are busy, the bettors are in a frenzy, and the Gamemakers are all in their chambers to prep for the nightly coverage.</p><p>     It’s the perfect time to talk freely.</p><p>     Finnick hands me another whiskey sour, and I can’t switch my straw fast enough to start sipping it. I just know they’re both dead. More teenagers under my care are now dead. The room starts to spin again.</p><p>     The perfectly tanned mentor from District Four loses his laugh lines as he peers into my eyes, beckons for me to come back to the present. I drag my mind back from the edge of the abyss and really look at him. The Capitol’s sex symbol is in front of me, nursing flavored water designed to look like a cocktail — I can tell from the carbonation — and looking like he’s an extra in a particularly sadistic sitcom.</p><p>     “Johanna. I know this is the worst time, but I need to give my condolences for your family. I’m truly sorry for what you’ve been through.”</p><p>     The automatic scoff dies in my throat; his tone is as genuine as anything I’ve heard about my family. The responses I received ran the gambit from flat-out lies to Capitol propaganda to the faux sympathies from other mentors in years past who lamented my ‘personal and regrettable tragedy’ and forgot about it in their next sentence.</p><p>     “Thank you. I’m…I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you,” I say, hopefully conveying the guilt I’ve felt at grouping Finnick in with the Capitol monsters puppeteering this whole charade, “I know it wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>     He grasps my free hand, a firm squeeze conveying that he does understand. I take another sip of my drink, the Games announcers droning along in the background. I feel an angry heat in my stomach, released by the stress.</p><p>     “They killed my entire family, Finnick,” I surprise myself by saying out loud, my voice low, my eyes fixed on the faux plastic woodgrain of the bar table, “and it’s my fault. I have no one.”</p><p>     Finnick takes a deep breath, scanning the distracted crowd around us before responding. “I think about them every day, Johanna. I am so sorry for your loss, and for what it’s worth, you have me.”</p><p>     His response strangles me, the push over the proverbial ledge paved with dead teenagers, two new bodies yet to be flashed across national television. I feel my head spin, the bar table suddenly above my head, then protruding through the wall to my right. I grasp blindly ahead of me, my clammy hand clutching empty air before I feel my shoulder hit the ground.</p><p>     I’ve fallen, I think, but I don’t care quite yet. I can feel my roughly chopped bangs in my face, sweaty and unhelpful. Muffled voices ring in my ears, but I’m content to lie on the plush carpet, my vision swimming in a mixture of white stars and the odd blue textured tiling on the lounge ceiling. It’s almost like an ocean current, unforgiving and constant.</p><p>     I hope it carries me away.</p><p> </p><p>     I struggle back into consciousness in the tribute apartments, my cheek sticking on the stupid faux leather couch. I blink hard, a migraine already worming its way behind my eyeballs, and scan for signs of life; no Blight, only our newly assigned pair of Avoxes, raven-haired and stalwart in the doorways. I feel bile rise in my throat and vomit to my right, surprised that a large bowl is there to catch the carnage. I guess they prepped the new Avoxes on my condition.</p><p>     My stomach lurches and I cough to clear my throat, blearily realizing that the television set is blaring the late evening recap. I wipe my mouth and stare at the flickering screen as the nightly tribute recap shuffles past, feeling my heart pound as I see District Seven flash across, Leigha and Sam’s grayed-out portraits, the realization that they’re both gone sinking an inch further into my throbbing chest like a slowly administered dagger.</p><p>     I feel for their families. I’ve just failed exponentially more people, too, more parents added to the roster of justifiably hating me for being unable to help their tribute children. Every single one of my organs is constricting in pain, my liver and left lung especially crying out in more distress than I thought possible. I want to drink more, but nothing is within my grasp. I just vomit into the welcoming silver bowl again, a too-good receptacle for my filth.</p><p>     The programming pans to the surviving tributes, accompanied by the switch to an appropriate upbeat music track. I hack another glob of spit into my bowl and somehow register that the plucky District 12 tribute, Katniss, gained her own segment in the recap for constructing a nighttime hideout in the trunks of a tree.</p><p>     The footage shows her tying herself onto a tree branch, securely balanced well above the ground in a smartly procured sleeping bag. I cling onto those moments, remembering the girl on the roof the night prior, wrapped in Capitol fleece, smelling like her district, so determined to see the next several dawns that I envied her resilience, so mired in my own desire to die. That desire had only deepened, but she was still out there fighting.</p><p>     Both of my tributes are dead, but this one, Katniss Everdeen from District 12, is still alive, at least for the night.</p><p>     <em>Good girl,</em> I think as I see the terrified but determined tribute refastened her belt around the branch and her sleeping bag to keep her from accidentally rolling over in the night. The camera lingers as she forces her body into sleep in the manner of a hunter hyped on adrenaline but understanding the need to preserve energy before the dawn brings new terrors.</p><p>  <em>   Good girl.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* chapter song: in the woods somewhere // hozier *</p><p> </p><p>thanks again for reading &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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